


Gotham to Gettysburg

by Midnight_Ryder



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Race Changes, American Civil War, Auctions, Bank Robbery, Black Character(s), Carnival, Elseworlds, Explosions, Gotham City - Freeform, Maryland, Mason Dixon Line, Minstrel Show, Pennsylvania, Shipping, Slave Trade, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight_Ryder/pseuds/Midnight_Ryder
Summary: Batman and his rogues' gallery re-imagined during the peak of the American Civil War.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Freedom Knocks on the Gates of Gotham

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not the best person to write this adaptation. I’m a white male living in the suburbs writing about a predominantly black experience. This is at best controversial, willfully ignorant and exploitative at worst. I have tried to be respectful, as much as one can, when blending the painful history of the American Civil war with fictional accounts that touch upon race, wealth, and American society at large during the 19th century. I leave it to the reader to determine if this is folly or not. Perhaps it’s another foolish attempt of misplaced ambition by a white boy with ideas and a laptop, or perhaps it’s an adaptation worth imagining, telling, dissecting, and enjoying. Like many things in life, it’s probably a little bit of both.
> 
> I truly consider Batman to be one of the great literary figures of American fiction, with lore that reaches back decades and an ever expanding canon. My hope was to blend two uniquely American subjects, Batman and the American Civil War, into one immersive tale where these things can expand upon and compliment one another.
> 
> In terms of logistics for the tale, Gotham is a real city. Wedged between Baltimore and Philadelphia, Gotham sits at the northern most inlets of the Chesapeake Bay, a few miles south of the Mason Dixon Line, now known as the Pennsylvania/Maryland border.

June, 1863

Tonight was the tenth night in a row that they had been on the run. They hadn’t eaten warm food for the last eight days. They drank from a nearly stagnant creek a few hours ago.

Affey thinks she slept for a few hours yesterday. It was hard to remember. Mostly she remembers running. They had been running nearly this whole time. When they weren’t running, they were sleeping in shifts. More eyes needed to be opened than closed. That was the rule. 

All things considered they’d been fairly lucky. Eight of the nine that started out were with them now. “Mingo, poor man,” Affey thought. He’d stepped in a bear trap. His scream was unforgettable. As they were trying to pry the trap open, they heard dogs yapping and men yelping, ready to claim their prize. “Leave him,” Dembow barked as he ran into the darkness. Affey couldn’t help but look back, Mingo’s eyes wide and white with fear in the dark night. He didn’t cry out for them to return. He would have done the same thing in their position. Any slave would have.

That was almost a week and at least 100 miles ago. From then until now, they’d managed to stay mostly unseen, but tonight was going to be different. Tonight they were entering Gotham, God willing. Once inside the bustling city, they’d have the anonymity and protection of the crowds. From there, it just a few miles to the Mason Dixon Line by way of a horse drawn supply cart. In the Union North, it was much easier to make the final push into Canada. To those looking to escape, the mantra “Freedom knocks on the gates of Gotham” was well known, the first line of a song of liberation. Slave patrols knew the song too and they were ready. Their infamous last barrier, guarded by the mysterious Scarecrows, was all the run aways had been talking about the last few nights.

“I hear the Scarecrows drink owl’s blood mixed with coffee so they never have to sleep!”

“Juba told me when they catch you, they curse you with a demon who eats your brain.”

“They take you to “The Barn” and they only sell to rapists and murderers for top coin!”

Affey didn’t know what to believe. She had asked their guide Dembow at the start of their journey, but Dembow had purposefully told the group very little. He told them corn fields on the southern border of Gotham was their best chance to freedom, despite the risks. Slave patrols, dressed as scarecrows, guarded the fields at night. They could get through if they moved quickly and quietly. They were only men, after all. Dembow had made it through several times. He was proof it could be done. 

“Not everyone you’ve led has made it though, right?” Affey pressed a few nights ago. “The scarecrows have caught others with you, haven’t they?” Dembow’s jaw clenched tight.

“Of course,” he growled. “Listen to me, and you won’t join them.”

Affey winched. Dembow changed the subject.

“You remember where to meet the cart that will take us north once we’re inside Gotham?” he asked.

“Near the Cathedral on 7th Ave and Arkham.”

“Good. Just think of that. Cling to that hope,” Dembow uttered with a cold stoicism. 

She knew he didn’t want to scare them. The Scarecrows’ fields were particularly cruel, the most treacherous part of the journey with freedom just out of reach. Only the bravest would make it through. Affey tried to remind herself this as she continued to run, drenched in sweat and legs burning with fatigue. Suddenly they came to a halt at the crest of a small hill.

“What’s that noise?” Niya asked.

“Quiet! We’re here,” Dembow whispered. The faint sound of hissing filled the night’s air. As Affey pushed her way to the front of the group, the vast expanse of rows and rows of corn fields grew before her. The tall corn stalks swayed in the wind, hissing in aggravation as they rubbed against one another. Under the slivered moon, the fields rippled in waves, shiny leaves reflecting the pale lunar glow. 

“Look,” Saundy said ominously as he pointed to fields. As Affey followed his finger, she could just make out a dark peak standing above the corn’s bustling stalks. Unlike the crops, it stood unmoving, masked in shadow. Aware of its lifeless stance, Affey soon noticed another shadowed peak a stone’s throw away from the first. Then another. And another. Their outlines, kissed by moonlight, became clearer and clearer. Suddenly her eyes were only drawn to the crucifixes with wide brimmed hats. The Scarecrows dotted the field, poised and ready.

“There must be dozens of them,” Niya said with dread filled awe.

“95, last time I counted” Dembow replied. “Most of them are for crows. Only a few are for us. As long as we’re smart and quiet, they’ll never now we’re hear. Stay close behind me, and whatever you do, don’t say a word. Let’s go.”

The seven run-away slaves and their guide left the cover of the hills, and crept down the slopes toward the swaying corn fields. Affey made sure to be right behind Dembow. As they entered the fields, the corn stalks towered above them, providing both cover from danger and blindness to it. Dembow slowly led them in a serpentine pattern, making sharp turns without warning. Also, without warning, he’d stop. Pause. Listen. A moment longer. Once assured it was only the corn stalks thrashing would Dembow continue forward. 

Now deep into the corn fields, Jonah, bringing in the rear, noticed an unusual flash of moonlight. Just to his left was a small clearing. A large tree stump lay at the center of the trodden ground. Driven into it was an axe, the sharp blade’s edge catching the silver moon’s glow. An axe might come in handy, Jonah thought. The scarecrows had brought so much terror to his kind that he relished the thought of returning the favor. He peeled away from the group to head for the clearing.

KLANG! CRASH! KLANG!

Jonah whipped his head downward to face the noise. His foot had caught a line of twine that bound glass bottles together, their high pitched impacts cutting through the night’s air. Scarecrows must have buried those bottles. They set the trap, and Jonah walked right into it.

“Shit!” Jonah barked. He leaped to the giant stump, reaching for the axe. If he was going to get caught, he was at least going to try to spill some blood. His heart suddenly sunk as the axe refused to be pulled from the stump. They must have bolted it down. They had fooled Jonah twice. Jonah looked up and saw he was surrounded by three faceless figures, masked with burlap.

Jonah’s screams of agony and struggle drowned out the hissing stalks momentarily. As soon as Dembow had heard the glasses rattling, he grabbed Affey’s wrist and started to run. Affey tried to grab the hand of the woman behind her, but Dembow kept pulling her too quickly. The corn leaves cut and slapped Affey’s cheeks as they flew through the fields. She could see a few of the slaves behind them, trying to keep up. 

“Gotcha!” Suddenly a pair of arms snatched Saundy up, kicking and flailing into the darkness, his scream disappearing into the night as quickly as his body. Dembow jerked Affey hard to the right, cutting across rows of corn. Her lungs were burning and she was fighting every urge to wail in panic. She felt warm tears streaming down her face. 

“Stop!” Dembow whispered, coming to an abrupt halt. 

“Get down.” 

The other slaves raced past them, not seeing their abrupt stop. Affey was about to cry out for them, but Dembow slapped his hand over her mouth, knowing she was a merciful woman. Through her tears, she looked to Dembow for courage. He had little to offer, and whispered, “We’re on our own now.”

With ears to the sky, they waited and listened for the Scarecrows. Over the corn field’s steady buzzing, she could hear a few men talking in the distance. Their footsteps grew closer. She felt a tap on her shoulder, Dembow signaling her to crawl away from the noise. Like cats, they stealthily crept forward, only their desperate panting to be heard. In the distance, hounds started to bark. Dembow halted.

“Damn it! They brought dogs tonight. They’ll find us at this pace,” he whispered between gulps of air. “We’re about halfway though. If we make a break for it, we might be to make it to Gotham’s streets.”

“I’m afraid it won’t come to that,” a voice said from above. They peered up to see they had come to rest at the foot of a scarecrow’s perch. The scarecrow struck a match and lit a lantern with red glass casing. The blood colored aura barely illuminated the haunting features of their capture: a hastily sown scowl on a burlap mask with sunken cheeks, a noose worn as a tie, and rusty nails brandished randomly throughout its garb.

Dembow stood to face their capture. Scarecrow pulled a pistol from his belt and aimed it at Dembow’s forehead. 

“Don’t,” Scarecrow ordered, then shouted. “I got two live ones over here, boys!” Two more scarecrows bearing rifles emerged from the stalks. Scarecrow hung the lantern before stepping from his perch.

“I know you,” he said, shaking his long, knobby finger at Dembow. “You’re Dembow. For somebody who has supplied me with so much business, you sure are a pain in my ass. You just couldn’t stay away, could you? You’re a brave man.”

“You’re an evil one!” Dembow snarled. One of the scarecrows behind him pointed his rifle at Dembow.

“Say the word and I’ll put him in the dirt, boss!” 

Scarecrow weighed his options in silence. “No,” he finally replied. “Shackle him and take him to my laboratory. He’s crossed our fields many times, so he must have an extremely high tolerance for fear. That may prove useful.”

As one scarecrow kept Dembow on the business side of his rifle, the other shackled Dembow’s arms behind his back. Scarecrow produced a small vial and rag from his robe. After wetting the rag, he pressed it to Dembow’s face.

“Sleep,” Scarecrow cooed. Dembows eyes went wide with struggle, then shut. Scarecrow turned to Affey. She cowered beneath his menacing gaze.

“Did you believe him? When he called me an evil man?” Scarecrow posited. Affey made no reply. Scarecrow chuckled. 

“Care to make a deal with the devil? We caught two of your friends, but we know there were more. Tell me where you planned on meeting them, and once we’ve claimed all of them, we’ll let you go. Deal?”  


Affey’s mind raced as her body shook. 7th and Arkham. 7th and Arkham. 7th and Arkham. Her lips trembled. Just spit out the words and live, she thought. Scarecrow lowered his face so close to hers he could feel his hot breath. She could feel his evil, smell his stink. Dembow had been brave. She had to be too.

“I won’t tell you anything,” she said shakily, doing her best to mask the fear. She could feel the Scarecrow’s souring grimace in her bones.

“Yes you will. You just don’t know it yet,” he said with a terrible confidence. In a flash he stuffed a rag into her mouth and forced her head back into the dirt with all his weight. As Affey struggled, she breathed in the stench from the rags, a perfume of sour milk and burnt hair. The fight of her body suddenly left, and she felt herself going limp. The stars in the night sky, once stationary, now shot down from the heavens like thousands of needles into her skull. She could hear millions of worms thrashing in the ground beneath her. The Scarecrow’s burlap mask melted from his face, slithered onto her body, and wound a tight, stinging cocoon around her. She tried to scream, but couldn’t.

Convinced the poison had taken effect, Scarecrow got up from the ground and brushed himself of dirt. 

“Put her in the wagon with the others,” he ordered to his minions. “Then reset, in case more come. The night is young!” 

As the two scarecrows dragged Affey’s body away, Scarecrow climbed atop his perch. He stared out to the rippling fields, and the old tune rose in his memory. Such a hopeful song. Such a sham. He blew out his red lantern, returning to the comfort of darkness, and quietly sung the old slaves’ hymn.

“Freedom knocks on the gates of Gotham  
Liberty rings as the northern bells toll  
Hope rises up as chains break down  
Run to God and Gotham, my soul”


	2. Murder at Siren's Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman patrols the harbor, and stakes out a crooked shipping mogul when a deal goes bad.

The ports of Gotham were notoriously busy, buzzing with transaction and trade every hour of everyday. Ships, having spent weeks crossing the Atlantic, couldn’t wait for the convenience of daylight to end their passage. Money and goods were passing hands all hours of the day and night in Gotham, unlike the more reputable ports in New York. If one wanted public good standing and notoriety, shipments came through New York, but for those who wished to avoid attention for whatever reason typically chose the more morally ambiguous ports of Gotham. Unsavory bars and brothels lined the docks for the newly mainland traveler, and the nearby train yards efficiently made sure both goods and problems found their proper places. As the seedy underbelly of international commerce had found a home in Gotham’s ports, Gotham urban legend, the Batman, was rumored to frequent the banks of the Gotham Harbor.

Batman had been at the ports every night this week. The high ceiling warehouses, the billowing sails of the ships, and the constant shifting of piles and crates made it easy for Batman to move along the docks undetected. Presently, he sat perched atop the roof of Siren’s Call, an infamous hotel and brothel known as a first stop for many sailors and businessmen who had made the Atlantic crossing. Batman peered into his collapsible telescope and traced the decks of the Wanderlust. His mark, shipping mogul and wartime profiteer Grover Morris, strutted down the gangplank and made his way to the waiting arms of Siren’s Call. Like a ship at sea, Morris had the reputation of leaving blood and turmoil in his wake. After watching his patterns for three crossings, Batman had confirmed his suspicions of Grover’s routine in the hotel’s ledger: he always had the Captain’s Penthouse Suite checked out in his name with a gaggle of his favorite girls to keep him company. As Grover entered the hotel, Batman scaled the brick walls and put his ear into the enormous chimney of the brothel’s premium suite. Inside, he could just make out the nervous giggles of the women of the night as Grover Morris entered the penthouse.

“Hello, my lovelies,” he cooed. “I’m afraid I need to conduct a little business before playtime. Be darlings and fetch Mr. Van Dollen for me?” The shuffling of feet ended with the click of the door. Grover Morris mumbled to himself unintelligibly occasionally before a new pair of footsteps clacked on the suite’s wooden floors.

“Mr. Van Dollen, an honor to see you again, sir,” Morris said in a stately manner. “I suspect you found your complimentary room here to be comfortable?”

“Yes indeed,” Van Dollen replied, “I was grateful for the company as my Miss Annette is away visiting her cousins. Your generosity and your discretion are appreciated, Mr. Morris.”

“But of course. Imagine the scandal if the Port Master of Gotham was found associating himself with the Siren’s Call. I’m happy to make those arrangements for a fellow businessman.”

“One hand washes the other.”

Batman’s eyes closed to narrow slits with the awkward pause in their conversation, the pleasantries over. One pair of footsteps crossed the room, near the extravagantly large fireplace below.

“So, do you have my diamonds?” Van Dollen inquired.

“I do.” A shuffling of feet. “Inspect them, if you wish.”

“Remarkable!”

“Remarkable and not easy to come by. African mining is a brutal trade.”

“Yes. Savages, but handy with a pick ax I’ve been told. Here is your payment, then.” 

“I’m afraid the price has gone up. This is now only half of what the going rate is,” Morris replied coolly. 

“Don’t be ludicrous! It’s the amount we agreed upon.”

“It’s the amount we agreed upon over six months ago. The circumstances have changed since then. There’s a war going on out there, in case you missed it. I’ve heard the Confederates are marching north into Pennsylvania. They might even sack Gotham. If they do, you and your crooked little ledger are going to be worth a whole lot less to me than they are now. A port master in the pocket doesn’t come cheap, you should know that. I’m only doubling the price because you’re a friend.”

“This is outrageous!”

“This is business, Mr. Van Dollen. War time business, at that.”

“You think you can bully me with such an exorbitant demand? I don’t give a shit where the Confederates are; I’m the Port Master right here and now! We made a contract! I’ve fulfilled my end of it. That is, unless you would prefer the police to become aware of certain discrepancies in your tax and tariff payments?”  
Morris chuckled menacingly. “You may be the Port Master as far as the government is concerned, but I’m the true master of the ports. These docks are mine. My sailors and longshoremen out number your police three to one.”

“Be careful to threaten me, Mr. Morris. I won’t take it lightly.”

“I was about to say the same thing to you. Charles! George! Get in here!”

Batman heard two new heavy pairs of feet enter the room. Must be Morris’ muscle.

“Does anybody even know you’re here right now, Mr. Port Master? Quite the precarious position to be in. Now, if you pay my price, we’ll both just walk away. If you don’t? Well, I’m ready to go shopping for a new Port Master anyways.” 

“Fuck your bluff! My police will be here in—“

A gunshot blast ended the argument. Batman cursed. He’d waited too long. 

Effortlessly, he jumped onto the chimney, and pencil dove feet first into the suite below. His muscular frame easily broke the flue cap, and slammed into a planted crouch on the hearth’s stone floor. A cloud of ash flowed from his cape like a burning demon as he emerged from beneath the ornate mantle.

“What the—“ Morris exclaimed. His feet suddenly flew forward and his skull violently struck the floor. The businessman hadn’t even seen the quick work of Batman’s whip, tightly wound around his ankles. Batman heaved the whip, flinging Morris’ limp body into the bookshelf to the left of the giant fireplace. Instantly assessing the scene, Van Dollen’s body was crumpled on the floor in a stream of blood. Spilling from a small velvet sack, radiant diamonds dotted the floor, catching the candlelight from the gaudy chandelier illuminating the room. Batman’s eye caught the movements of Morris’ two goons as they reached for their belts. Before muzzles had left holsters, a bat shuriken struck the chandelier’s chain, and the warm light instantly vanished as the chandelier shattered on the floor with a deafening crash. 

The revolvers’ gunfire lit up the otherwise dark room in brief flashes, but the heavy and awkward weapons were too slow to catch the nimble Batman. He flew across the floor and slammed his heel into a small dining table in the center of the room. It quickly slid, screeching on the wooden floor, and violently struck the tender groin of the henchman on the left. The other goon let loose two more shots before his arm was awkwardly pinned against the side of his head. The goon was only able to get a fleeting glance of the bola’s ball wrapped around his upper torso before Batman jammed his head against the wall, letting out a wet thud. Suddenly the door creaked halfway open, and Batman readied his stance to face the hoard of more footmen waiting to join the chaos. Instead a choir of women’s screams filled the air as the whores saw the carnage that lay inside their room. The desk-pinned goon had recovered and aimed at the Batman’s head which was catching the light of the hallway’s lamps. A split second before he could fire, Batman flung open the door towards the henchman, catching the tip of the gun’s barrel. The bullet wedged itself into the wall, causing another round of screams from the women outside. In a flash, Batman’s iron grip forced the goon’s head into his knee, and he could feel the henchmen’s jawbone crack upon impact. Now safe, Batman turned to the women staring in the hall. As he eerily floated towards them, ash still spilling from his giant cloaked figure, they recoiled and squealed in terror, expecting more violence. Instead, the door quietly shut and locked.

Turning back into the room, Batman quickly went to the body of Port Master Van Dollen. He checked for vitals. No pulse, no breathing. Looked like he’d be shot in the chest and the bullet must have hit a major artery. He then noticed the small velvet bag he’d seen on the floor was no longer there. A warm breeze from the summer night kissed his cheek, coming from an open window. Had that window been opened before?

As his mind raced to remember such a subtle detail, the commotion of voices could be heard outside on the streets, responding to the gunshots. Between the gaps in buildings, the hints of a red dawn pushed against the night sky. He wanted to look for the diamonds further, but the police would soon be on the scene. Besides, Batman knew he had an early engagement at Wayne Manor that required his other alias. He crept out the open window and slipped back into the dying shadows of the night, making his way to along the rooftops to Wayne Manor.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re cutting it quite close, Master Bruce,” Alfred scolded as he collected Batman’s cowl and leather armor.

“What time is it?” Bruce asked, shedding his gear as he briskly crossed the walkways of the cave. Alfred, following close behind, collected each article of clothing as Bruce undressed as Batman. 

“It’s 7:55. Mr. Cobblepot said he’d be here at 8 sharp! Really, Master Bruce, with all the trinkets and tools you carry, I’d hope a pocket watch would be among them!”

“We have time, Alfred,” Bruce replied firmly as he approached two mannequins at the base of a spiral staircase. One mannequin was dressed in neat black trousers, a simple white button up shirt, a black jacket, and a humble black bow tie. Bruce quickly began to put on his new costume, starting with the black trousers. Alfred let out a sigh of frustration. 

“Don’t worry. I’m ready,” said Bruce reassuringly. 

“I’m not worried about you! I know you’re ready, Master Bruce, but I require practice! Rehearsal! I feel much better when we have a moment to get into character.” Alfred roughly threw the Batman’s attire  
into a basket nearby with contempt. A cloud of black soot shot into the air and slowly began to settle.

“Goodness! Is that gunpowder?”

“Soot from a chimney,” Bruce said as he buttoned up his shirt. Alfred swung the black blazer over Bruce’s bulging shoulders, then faced Bruce as his fingers went to quick work on the bow tie. “Port Master Van Dollen was murdered. A deal with Grover Morris went awry at Siren’s Call. I had to leave the scene rather abruptly, but I’m sure the police will put the crime together.”

“I certainly hope so,” Alfred said as he put the final touches on Bruce’s tie. “The volumes one could write about Grover Morris’s misgivings. Still, if I’m being truthful, I’d rather spend my morning with that man than Oswald Cobblepot!” Alfred practically spit as he said the name. He rushed to the other mannequin, removed a burgundy silk robe, and flung it on. “At least Mr. Morris had the notion of civility when we briefly met. Meanwhile, Oswald Cobblepot is a squawking vulture, incessantly needy and vile to his core. Now, shall we go meet him?” 

“How do I look?” Bruce asked, smoothing his collar.

“Good enough, for our purposes. And me?”

“Don’t forget the cane, Alfred,” Bruce shouted back as he started to ascend the spiral staircase.

“Ah yes, the pièce de rèsistance!” Alfred exclaimed, swooping up the cane propped up nearby then following Bruce up to Wayne Manor. 

As the false bookshelf slid open and the two men rushed out, the grandfather clock across the study sang in eight steady chimes. Immediately upon its completion, a sharp rapping came at the grand front door. Bruce hurried to the front door as Alfred split off to the reading room that was just off the entrance foyer. Bruce looked to Alfred, who gave him the nod of approval. Then the dark skinned Bruce Wayne, master of Wayne Manor and rightful heir to the immense wealth of Wayne Industries, opened the doors to the house he owned as a house slave for his oldest and dearest friend, Alfred Pennyworth.


	3. Cobblepot's Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald Cobblepot attempts to sway Alfred into a business deal. Bruce gets closer to identifying the diamond thief at Siren's Call.

Bruce Wayne opened the heavy door to Wayne Manor to reveal Oswald Cobblepot perched on the front steps, behind him a slender black women in house slave garb holding a briefcase. Bruce must have had two feet on the small, squat Englishman. True to the “pot” in his name, Mr. Cobblepot’s body resembled a bulbous and sturdy kettle that presently leaned on a black umbrella with an artisanal wooden handle. Adorned in a black and white suit that attempted to flaunt wealth, perhaps more appropriate for an evening affair, Cobblepot’s beady eyes glared at the giant slave before him through his monocle.

“I’m here to see Mr. Pennyworth,” Cobblepot rudely squawked under his brimmed top hat. Bruce’s face held an empty and confused stare.

“Pennyworth! I want to see Pennyworth, you brute!” repeated Cobblepot, impatient venom in his voice.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Alfred’s voice shouted from the foyer inside. Bruce took a step back to reveal a hunched over Alfred Pennyworth hobbling forward on his cane. Upon reaching the door, Alfred swatted Bruce aside with a few whacks from his cane.

“Move, Bateman! Move! Get out of the way,” Alfred said as he took his rightful place under the arch of the door. “Apologies, Mr. Cobblepot. Bateman is mute, and his mental capacities are, well, somewhat lacking. Good with a wood axe, though. I digress, do come in!” After several failed attempts to mimic a consistent Western African accent, Bruce and Alfred decided perhaps it best if his character never spoke at all. Cobblepot let out a grunt of satisfaction as he entered Wayne Manor, his house slave following from two paces back. Cobblepot awkwardly took off his fur lined heavy coat and top hat, and tossed them back to his house slave.

“Would you care for some tea, Mr. Cobblepot?” Alfred asked graciously.

“Tea? Aren’t you the proper Englishman, Pennyworth?” Cobblepot goaded, “This isn’t London-Town, old boy. This is Gotham, so drink like it! I bet you have a few bottle of aged scotch hidden away. How about a touch of the good stuff?” Alfred attempted a half sincere polite smile before turning to Bruce.

“Bateman, see what we have in the cellar for Mr. Cobblepot and Earl Grey for myself. Shall we sit in the reading room?” Alfred led Cobblepot into the reading room with his exaggerated limp. Bruce turned to fetch some of his father’s old scotch. His eyes briefly met those of the house slave’s. She quickly looked away. She was beautiful, with pronounced cheek bones and full lips. Her humble house slave attire couldn’t hide her lean, muscular build. Bruce hushed these things from his mind and hurried to the cellar beneath the kitchen. 

“So this is the famous Wayne Manor,” Cobblepot awed as his eyes tracing the beautiful woodwork built into the walls and ceilings of the mansion. “Hard to believe a Negro family had the money to pull this off. A little disgusting, if you ask me.”

“Nobody did ask you, Mr. Cobblepot. I can assure you the Wayne family worked quite hard for their wealth,” Alfred retorted.

“Still feel the need to lick their boots even after all these years, eh, old boy?” Cobblepot snickered before pressing on. “How you got them to leave you their fortune is beyond me.” The fat man paused to study a portrait of Thomas, Martha, and a young Bruce hanging on the wall above a vase of flowers. “Did they ever find the body of the boy, Bruce Wayne?”

“Last I heard, Bruce fell victim to an unfortunate accident while studying in the Orient. The body was never found, and I can confidently say I don’t expect one to turn up any time soon,” Alfred said matter-of-factly. Cobblepot turned and studied Alfred’s stoic face. He then crowed in violent laughter.

“Hid the body well, did you?” Cobblepot said through fits of giggles. He tapped the tip of his nose then pointed at Alfred. “You’re a clever one, Pennyworth. I like your style!” 

Alfred nodded with a coy smile. Alfred had managed to plant the seeds of nefarious plots over the years when Bruce’s disappearance arose in conversation. Nobody had seen Bruce Wayne in almost two decades. Thomas and Martha had left Alfred specific instructions that should the jealousy of their white neighbors and commercial competition ever turn violent, he was to send Bruce abroad for safety’s sake. After spending years trotting the globe, studying and mastering techniques in pushing his body and mind, Bruce secretly returned to Gotham as a young man. Knowing Bruce might very well suffer the same fate as his parents, Alfred and Bruce devised characters to keep the family fortune and divert unwanted attention: a miserly British hermit in decline and his brawny but slow house slave. They almost never had people over to Wayne Manor, but getting a chance to learn the intentions and plans of the rising trade kingpin Oswald Cobblepot was too important to pass up.  
Bruce had returned with silver tray bearing a single malt scotch and a small pot of tea. As he set up beverages, the two elderly white men found their way to chairs facing each other and continued their conversation.

“You had mentioned in your letter that you have a business opportunity for me, Mr. Cobblepot,” Alfred said as he calmly stirred his tea. “What do you have in the works?”

“I’m hoping to borrow some capital, old boy. The returns are all but guaranteed. You can expect to double your money in just over four months!” Cobblepot poured himself at least four fingers worth of scotch and proceeded to slurp on it noisily. 

“Quite the promise indeed,” Alfred replied. “If I was to lend you the money, would exactly would you use it for?”

“My company, Emperor Imports and Trade, is looking to charter a few ships for trading across the pond. I’d fund it myself, but my money is all tied up in assets these days.”

“Where would you be trading?” Alfred pressed, sipping his tea with his eyes on the fat man across from him.

“Oh you know, old boy, mostly Gotham and Liverpool,” Cobblepot listed innocently. He finished his tumbler of whiskey, smacked his lips in satisfaction, and casually murmured. “And maybe a stop or two on the African coast.”

Alfred’s eyebrows arched ever so slightly. “That sounds like the old Transatlantic slave trade routes.” Cobblepot chuckled to himself, and stared at Alfred, combing over his face for any reaction. He broke his stare to pour himself another round of scotch.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it does.”

“Importing slaves is illegal, Mr. Cobblepot.”

“That what makes it so damn profitable!” he cackled as he sloshed more scotch down his throat. “Lina! My briefcase!” The female house slave quickly came in from the foyer, and deposited the briefcase into Cobblepot’s lap. As he rummaged through it, he waved his hand in dismissal. 

“Leave us.” 

Once Lina had left the room, he pulled a few papers from his briefcase, and suspiciously eyed Bateman who stood idly by in the corner. Alfred chose to ignore the hint and snatched the papers from Cobblepot’s hands. He feigned interest as he thumbed through the figures and diagrams. Cobblepot cleared his throat.

“Ahem, as you can see, we’ll need at least three ships in order to meet our quota. A fourth ship, if you’re willing to front it, will bring an extra 20% to your investment! Passage times include a few extra days to account for bad weather. Death rate on the Middle Passage is about 10%. I have a butcher who can use the bodies for pig food so we can reclaim some of those losses. I have contacts in Liverpool and across the West African Coast, but I hope we can toss the Wayne name around to fill out our ranks in Gotham—“

“Why Gotham?” Alfred interrupted. “Why this far north?”

“I may have burned a few bridges in Charleston,” Cobblepot grumbled before recovering. “But I think you’re not seeing the potential, old boy. The timing couldn’t be better! As we speak the Confederates are aggressively pushing north. They need men now! Do you really think a Confederate General cares where his soldier came from when he’s got bodies piling up all over Virginia? And if the Greys do take Baltimore, Washington, Gotham, and maybe even Philadelphia, the demand for slave labor will be higher than ever. The Union is desperate for capital, so they’ll happily load up our ships to import to England. Our sweet Motherland is happy to scoop up the war time bargains, and they’ll give us more ships and weapons. Take those down to south of the Sahara, exchange them for some darkies, and do it all over again! We get to play everybody and make a fortune every step of the way!” Cobblepot burst into a giddy laughter before settling back in his chair with a pleased grin on his face.

“You’re so certain the Confederacy will be successful. What happens if South can’t take Gotham?” Alfred asked. Cobblepot’s cheeks were a rosy red, the scotch warming up his fat face.

“Pennyworth, my dear man, are you really this naïve?” He leaned forward in his chair to make his point and pulled a cigar from his blazer’s inner pocket. After he struck a match, he puffed a few times to entice the embers before continuing. “Do remember when I met you at the Governor’s Ball last year? Remember all those bloated aristocrats who had scores of “maids” and “servants” outside, waiting with the horses? We’ll find homes for them, don’t you worry, old boy.”

“That’s hearsay!” Alfred sputtered. Cobblepot cocked his head to the right, like a curious raven.

“Really? Where is your man Bateman from, Pennyworth?” 

Alfred clenched his jaw. He couldn’t stray from the narrative he’d already told others before.

“He’s from the West Coast of Africa,” Alfred said contemptuously, hating to play into Cobblepot’s hand.

“Of course he is,” Cobblepot gloated as he rose and crossed to Bruce. “A fine specimen at that. I can see why you went to such trouble.” Cobblepot slapped Bruce’s left shoulder to compliment his build. Jostled by the forceful display, a light dusting of soot fell from Bruce’s hair onto Cobblepot’s hand. Alfred’s eyes went wide in horror.

“Ah! Apologies, Bateman was cleaning out the ovens before you arrived,” Alfred lied. “Bateman, I’m done with my tea!” Bruce took the cue and started to clean up.

“Leave the scotch!” Cobblepot barked. 

Bruce briskly took the tray towards the kitchen, and noticed Mr. Cobblepot’s coat and hat sitting on a small bench near the door. Lina was nowhere in sight. 

Bruce thought nothing of it when he heard the faint moan of a floor board coming from the second story of the mansion. Immediately suspicious, he gently sent down the tray on a small table adorning a vase, and stealthily moved up the grand staircase. He knew every creaking floorboard in that old house, and stood on the second story without having made a sound. As his ears scanned for any disturbance, he heard the faintest “click” to his left. His mother’s old dressing room! Putting speed over stealth, Bruce flew into his mother’s former room. To his surprise, it was empty. Bruce’s eyes blurred into a frenzy of motion, going over every inch of the room in only a few seconds, starting from the floor upwards. They landed upon a dresser drawer, ajar a fraction of an inch. His cheek was then kissed with the warm morning breeze of an open window across the room. His nostrils flared in anger. He knew that window wouldn’t have been open! 

Immediately, he rushed back towards the grand staircase. He skidded to a halt as he came to the top of the stairs. Down in the foyer, Lina sat on the bench near the front door that had been vacant only moments before. Composing himself, Bruce slowly descended the stairs, eyes fixed on the house slave below. She didn’t meet his gaze, but looked in boredom at the wall across the bench even as Bruce noisily picked up the tray of cold tea. He stood a moment, his stare burning into her skull. 

“Lina.”

Innocently, she turned and met his gaze. 

“Lina!”

Their eyes locked. It was her, Bruce fumed. It had to be her.

“SELINA!” Cobblepot shouted from the reading room door. Both Bruce’s and Selina’s eyes darted to the furious Cobblepot who was panting in rage. “We’re leaving! Get my things!” He waddled towards Selina, who quickly held open his fur lined coat. 

“I’ll let you know if I change my mind,” Alfred said as he emerged from the reading room. The white hot Cobblepot was shaking in anger. 

“You penny pinching son of a bitch, don’t toy with me!” Cobblepot spat, his knuckles white around the neck of the scotch bottle. “You’re throwing away the chance of a lifetime. I’ll be swimming in money while you’re rotting in this Negro shack!” Selina picked up the briefcase as Cobblepot stuffed the bottle into the coat, and plopped on his top hat. He swung he umbrella around so its tip was an inch away from Alfred’s nose. Bruce took half a step forward.

“You’ll see,” the stout, fat man growled. “Just you wait!” He abruptly turned, flung open the door, and bolted out of Wayne Manor with Selina in tow.Bruce hastily returned to his mother’s dressing room and closed the window. Located directly above the front door, he watched Cobblepot stomp down the gravel path of the main court yard towards the street. Even from here, Bruce could sense the man’s fury. His own blood grew hot as his eyes settled on the graceful stride of the house slave Selina. Although she tried to hide it, hers was the walk of victory. 

After Cobblepot had left the property, both Bruce and Alfred descended into the cave to change into their proper attire. As Batman catalogued the events of the prior night per usual routine, Alfred brought down a new kettle and two teacups. Without shame, Alfred poured a splash of gin into his own teacup before offering the same to Bruce, who declined.

“Pardon my sudden need for liquor, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, “Mr. Cobblepot just has that effect on me.”

“He’s an odd bird, for sure,” Bruce replied grimly. “Importing slaves is illegal, but we need something more than conjecture if his operation isn’t up and running yet. We need solid proof that he’s operating outside the law.”

“When I was reviewing his plans, they purposefully lacked specific names and other pertinent details. However, this did fall from the papers, and I doubt it was supposed to be in there.”   
Alfred gave Bruce a business card. Printed on the card was a regal looking penguin that stood above the text “Emperor Imports and Trade” with a downtown office address. Bruce flipped the card to reveal a scribbled address on the back. 617 Franklin Street. That was down by Gotham Harbor.

“Perhaps worth a look, sir?” Alfred suggested.

“I’ll check it out tonight. Meanwhile, I want you to send telegrams to every major jeweler in Gotham and pretend interest in African diamonds. I need to know if any suspicious amounts suddenly show up.”

“Very good, Master Bruce. Why the sudden interest in diamonds, sir? Have you found a special lady?” Alfred asked with pointed sarcasm.

“I have my eyes on one,” Bruce muttered coldly as he returned to journals to record how he’d been outwitted.


	4. A New and Terrible Predator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joker Jack, a minstrel show clown, suffers a brutal transformation

Madame Duskglow’s Minstrel Show and Oddities had been advertised across Gotham for weeks. Brightly colored posters hung on nearly every corner of every street, and they’d even taken out a half page in the Gotham Tribune. The bottom of the advertisement showed a motley crew of sideshow freaks, each more grotesque than the last. The center of the ad depicted the star of the show: Mr. Bryce Wheaton, one of the most famous blackface minstrel performers in the states. His universally revered character, Pappy Cottonpatch, had become synonymous with brilliant comedic sketches, catchy tunes, and top notch dance numbers. Gotham had buzzed with anticipation for weeks. It would be a spectacle not to be missed.

Requiring a few acres for all their attractions and gear, Madame Duskglow and company had pitched a few giant tents and smaller attractions in rented farm fields a mile east of Gotham proper. A steady stream of families flooded the main highway out of Gotham, following the strange signs depicting clowns, animals, and Pappy Cottonpatch’s thick painted grin proclaiming “THIS WAY TO THE SHOW!” Children, already bursting with energy and sugar, raced like flies around their parents and neighbors, who enjoyed the chance to get out of the city for the evening.

As the sun slowly began to settle into the western sky, the show grounds lit up with a frenzy of activity. Music blared from decorated music boxes from every corner of the grounds. Smaller children gathered around cages of exotic animals, while the larger children mustered up the courage to sneak glances at the side show characters. Despite the bombardment of stimuli outside, families slowly found their way into tent’s warm embrace for the main attraction. Snappy and upbeat music from a steam powered organ blared, competing against the roar of the ever growing crowd. With every seat filled and standing patrons crammed into every nook and cranny, a whiney trumpet medley blasted from the steam organ accompanied by the sharp roll of snare drums.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls! Welcome to Madame Duskglow’s Minstrel Show and Oddities!” a chubby man adorned in a red tailed coat as he took the center of the tent. “My name is Rodney Quicksilver, and I’ll be your Master of Ceremonies for the evening!” The crowd clapped in polite applause. 

“Before we begin tonight’s event, please welcome the mysterious and enchanting, Madame Duskglow!” The crowd hummed with a cautious curiosity. A thick burst of gas coughed from a corner of the tent, and through the fog appeared an old woman dressed in a sparkling orange and silver cloak. She clutched a crystal ball in her left hand, and mysteriously waved her right hand over it, massaging the energy radiating from the ball.

“Madame Duskglow, I was told you’re here to tell us the future for the evening,” Rodney Quicksilver said very, very seriously. “Tell us, what does the crystal ball reveal?” Madame Duskglow arched her eyebrows menacingly.

“Yes, yes, yessssssss,” Madame Duskglow cried in some strange and exaggerated Romanian accent. “The ball reveals many things to me. Tonight, I see…a show. This show! And the spirits are showing me that it is going to be…”

The audience leaned forward as Madame Duskglow milked the pause.

“FANTASTIC!” she finished which was met with thunderous applause and relief. “ONLY THE BEST FOR GOTHAM CITY!” The crowd eagerly ate up her pandering. She took a small curtsey, flung her cloak high above her head, then faded back into the smoke.

“Thank you, Madame Duskglow! You’re absolutely right: tonight’s show is going to be spectacular for all ages! Be sure to get your fortune read by Madame Duskglow after our main attraction,” Rodney Quicksilver said with a giant grin. “We want to start things off by getting to know our audience better. To help us do that, please welcome the Minstrel Misfits Trio: Buck Mulberry, Zippy Britches, and Joker Jack!”

The three performers rushed into the light, then quickly raced around the tent working up the crowd into a frenzy. Each of them was painted pitch black with huge red lips, brandishing a giant grin that seemed to be a permanent fixture. When they’d each done a couple laps around the tent, they landed in sloppy line next to Rodney Quicksilver.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, for our game we’re going to need three pairs of husband and wife. Husbands, fair warning, this may get a little messy! Do I have any volunteers? Misfits, get me the best Gotham has to offer!” 

Hands shot up and waved frantically for attention. Joker Jack skipped to one corner of the tent, and scanned the sea of hands. His attention was immediately drawn to a desperate idiot waving both hands with extreme enthusiasm. 

“Me! Pick me! My wife is right here! Me, Mr. Joker Jack! Pick me!”

The idiot had already pushed his way to the front of the seating, all but forcing Joker Jack to pick him. Joker Jack relented and waved his hand to join him on the floor. The idiot yelped in excitement, and then waved his wife to join him as he stumbled next to Joker Jack. The other misfits had selected their volunteers and led them back to the center of the tent.

“What a fine looking group!” Rodney Quicksilver announced with approval. “Introduce yourselves, volunteers!”

“I’m Jonathon Fulton and this is my wife Elizabeth.”

“Gordon Miller, my wife Phyllis”

“My name is Richard Gryell,” the idiot exclaimed and then pointed to his stupid grin, “Rhymes with smile! And this is my beautiful wife Joanna!”

“Thank you, volunteers!” the MC said graciously before directing the volunteers. “Husbands, why don’t you take a seat in those chairs facing the audience. Your wives are going to stay with me. Now, audience, I’m going to ask husbands questions about their wives they should probably know! The first husband to get three answers wrong is going to get a free dessert, compliments of the Misfit Trio!” Now standing next to their respective husband volunteers, the Misfits all smiled deviously as they delicately handled pies of towering cream. The audience hollered with delight.

“Jonathon, we’re going to start with you,” Rodney stated, “We’ll start you with an easy one: what day is your anniversary?”

As the other contestant squirmed in his seat, Richard Gryell stared up and down Joker Jack with awe. Joker Jack worn a ridiculous purple suit with tails, a button up with yellow frills spilling from the chest, a green bow tie, and a giant purple stove top hat.

“Thank you so much for picking me, Mr. Joker Jack! I’ve been wanting to see Pappy Cottonpatch for a long time! And to be a part of the show--”

“My pleasure, sir,” Joker Jack whispered back politely, his eyes still on the Rodney and other volunteers.

“I don’t know you guys do it!” Gryell continued, unable to tame his excitement. “The make-up, the way you guys talk, the stupid dances: I swear, you guys look like real Negros. You’re just like some that work for me! Exactly the same! If I didn’t know any better--HAHAHA”

Gryell laughed at his own remarks. Joker Jack’s jaw clenched tight and he could feel his neck grow tight. Shut up shut up shut up, Joker’s mind screamed. He could feel Gryell’s eyes going over every inch of his face and neck.

“My God, your make up is terrific! They got your neck, behind your ears. They do your hands too?” Gryell asked giddily as he eyed Joker Jack’s clean, white gloves.

“We’re up next! Pay attention!” Joker Jack hissed. 

“Just let me see!” Gryell spouted. He grabbed Joker Jack’s left wrist and yanked off the glove. Gryell gasped. Expecting fair skin, Joker Jack’s hand was a chocolatey bronze, unlike the crude burnt black that caked his face. Panicked, Joker Jack drew his hand back in recoil, but the sudden movement caused his hat to jump off his head. Piled on Joker Jack’s head was a tight coil of dreadlocks. Gryell’s mouth bobbed up and down like a carp on dry land, devastated by the deception.

“What in God’s name? You’re an actual nigger!” 

Joker Jack’s permanent smile had melted into a trembling grimace. His breath became quick and furious, and his whole body stiffened, readying itself with the primal instinct of ready fight or flight. Without warning, Joker Jack slammed the pie into Gryell’s face with all his strength, driving with his palm. After an audible crack, the force caused Gryell to fall backwards in his chair. The audience choked in dismay and confusion, and the other performers dropped the game as the tent became eerily silent. Gryell lumbered to his feet, a stream of blood cutting through the white cream smeared to his face. His nose was broken and pointed sideways, and he spat on the tent floor, a shower of blood and teeth. His eyes, burning into Joker Jack’s, were full of rage and murder.

Sensing trouble, Rodney Quicksilver rushed between the two heated men, and moved the show along. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m afraid we’re going to cut our game short. So without further delay, please welcome to the stage the king of blackface himself, Pappy Cottonpatch!”

The crowd roared as Richard Gryell backed out of the tent, his gaze never leaving the purple cladded clown.

____________________________________________

“You’re fired!” Madame Duskglow shouted, her Romanian accent now replaced by a thick Brooklyn one.

“You don’t understand!” Joker Jack shot back. “He called me—“

“I don’t give a fuck what he called you, Jack! You broke the man’s nose on stage! In front of a paying audience! I don’t care if he slapped your mother too, you don’t attack guests.”

“Don’t take his side—“

“If I take his money, I take his side. We’re done here! Now get your shit, and don’t let me see you near my tent again!”

Outside the performer wagon parked a few hundred meters from the tent, Joker Jack smoked a cigarette on a properties crate. He was now clean of his make-up, and wore humble clothes. His worldly  
belongings were stuffed into a single sack, slumped over beside him. A large black man and a skinny young black man emerged from the covered wagon. 

“I’m sorry you got canned, Jack,” the large black man said, lighting up his own cigarette. Dangling from his back pocket was the polka dot handkerchief Buck Mulberry had worn earlier. He handed a smoke to the now cleaned Zippy Britches.

“Whatchu gonna do next?” Zippy asked. Joker Jack stared blankly at the earth a few feet in front of him. He radiated despair.

“I don’t know,” he finally answered. “See if I can join another troupe, maybe? I can’t go South. I have warrants up North. I’m too broke to go West. I don’t know. I got nothing. What do you do with  
nothing?”

The clowns sipped on their cigarettes quietly. None of them had any good answers. 

The silence was broken by an ominous whistle. It grew into taunting hoots and hollers. From behind the properties tent strolled Richard Gryell and four giant white brutes. Gryell’s nose had a thick blanket of bandages across it, dangerous eyes on both sides of the stained cotton.

“Eenie Meenie Miney Mo…” Gryell taunted as a portion of chain dropped from his first. In a flash, the three minstrel performers scattered, with Joker Jack sprinting into the nearby fields. Above his own beating heart and panicked breathing, he could hear the men’s cruel shouts getting closer. One of them wrapped their strong arms around Joker Jack’s ankles, and he plummeted to the ground. The others had soon descended on the clown, and pinned him to the cold, damp earth. Richard Gryell stood over Joker Jack, a sickening smile spreading across his face. The chains whipped across Joker Jack’s skull and he faded into darkness.

As he started to regain consciousness, he heard them before he could see them.

“God, it’s filthy! It’s so unnatural”

“Disgusting! It’s nappy as hell!”

“My knife can barely get through it!”

His sense of touch slowly began to register. He bent his legs, but it felt like he was bound at the ankles. His wrists too, behind his back. They were holding his head, tugging this way and that. His eyes found focus. A huge black dreadlock fell to the earth. It rested next a pile of more, one side of each tattered and roughly hewn. 

“Rip it out, for all I care, Phillip. I could give two shits!” a voice growled. It was Gryell. There was a sharp tug on Joker Jack’s head, followed by a sharp burn of exposed flesh to cold air. Joker Jack winced.

“There you are, funny man,” Richard Gryell goaded, dropping to one knee to face Joker Jack’s sagged body. “You had a pretty good show in there. Pretty cute, what you pulled. Well, me and the boys got a bit of a show for you too. Hope you like it.” As Gryell stood up again, a noose quickly slipped around Joker Jack’s neck.

“Everybody ready? C’mon, let’s have some fun, boys!” Gryell shouted, met with hollering from his men. The sound of slow and steady beat of horse’s hooves into the dirt started to grow. Before Joker Jack could turn around, the noose grew tight and pulled him to the ground. He was able to pivot and get on his knees. Then his feet. Just stay on my feet, he thought.

The horses gallop steadily grew faster. Joker Jack couldn’t keep up, and his feet got pulled out from beneath him. On the carriage, the white men cackled with laughter and started to sing drinking songs. A bottle hit the ground, and shards of broken glass dug into Joker Jack’s soft back. His body was now totally limp, all that pressure being transferred to the noose’s growing grip.

He stared at his feet, bouncing along the dirt road like a rag doll. He was now covered with the pale dust of the lonely road, no chance of anybody bearing witness to his demise. The sides of his vision were starting to close in. The drunken lyrics of the men sounded farther and farther away. The stones playing his spine like a musical instrument dimmed into a faint hum. He was close to total darkness when Gryell’s sick and stupid laughter perked his nearly deaf ears, fanning the flames of his flickering soul.

With all his strength, he mustered his knees to his chest. He was able to sneak his wrists past his feet and knees, bringing his bound hands in front of him. The drunken singers seemed to be more interested in their song, so Joker Jack continued. His numb and stiff fingers wiggled and pried at the noose’s tight grasp on his soft neck meat. He rocked his neck back and forth with pure determination. The index finger slipped beneath the rope. Then the middle. Then all of his fingers, desperately digging at the rope. By some miracle, he started to feel the rope easing up, and a rush of cold night air poured into his lungs. 

A little more, he thought, a little more! 

He writhed and shook his neck, and felt the slack rope in his fingers. He slipped the rope over his chin with the last of his strength, having won. Not defeated yet, the rope whipped past his chin and lodged itself into Joker Jack’s mouth. His cheeks tore instantly under the sudden jerk of his body weight, and his mouth filled with the warm, iron taste of blood. His molars bit into the rough rope, and he choked and gurgled, drowning in his own blood. Again by cruel fate, Joker Jack once again used the last of his wits to sneak his fingers beneath the rope’s cutting snare. He pushed with strength he didn’t know he had. The rope flew over his head, and skipped along the ground, now free of its burden, behind the racing carriage. The thundering of hooves and melodies of the evil men blended into the near silent hum of the countryside night. They were gone. He was alive.

Still bound and his body shattered, Joker Jack inched his way to side of the road like a slug covered with salt. The road gave way to a grassy slope, a marsh sitting at the bottom festering with overzealous nocturnal activity of frogs and crickets. He had to get off the road. Totally spent, Joker Jack tumbled down the slope. His already bruised and bloodied head bounced and skidded down the wet earth. Finally, he flopped into the bog’s wet stink with a splash, and lay motionless. For a few moments, he let the foul water rest his broken body, relieved from gravity’s unrelenting tug. He laid there for as long as he could until his lungs burned, maybe closer to death than when the noose had bound his neck. Suddenly, his head shot out of the marsh’s water! He propped himself up under his elbows as he coughed up blood and muck. As the water settled, the pale moon offered its glow so that Joker Jack could see his reflection. 

Only what stared back was not himself. It was something else. His hair, once beautifully kept in tidy dreadlocks, stood up in chaotic and unkempt spikes, seemingly growing with grass and twigs. His skin, once smooth and the color of rich coffee, was now caked with the pale dust of the road and putrid swamp water. His cheeks were gone, now fragile drapes barely hiding rows of broken teeth. His mouth was now a crooked arch of blood and flesh extending to the base of his ears. His eyes had sunken into his skull, and the bloodshot veins of asphyxiation blanketed what had once been white. It was too much, and he let out a soft gasp in shock. Even his voice was different! Mangled by the noose, his vocal chords now rasped, clicked, and gargled to make any noise. He was utterly unrecognizable.

Joker Jack studied the face, his face, again and again. Locked in his own gaze, he couldn’t look away from his new likeness. This stranger suddenly had a complete hold over Joker Jack’s entire being. The fear brought on by the noose and evil white men slowly faded away, like a bad dream. 

This was it now.  
This is me.  
Only this.  
Born again.  
Of my own creation.  
Pure.  
Defiant.  
Without shame.  
Without mercy.

What remained of his shredded lips trembled. Then stilled. Then blossomed into a wild smile. He took it in, the water revealing this crazed newborn of the night.

My God, he thought, what a beautiful creature! 

Then from deep inside, someplace previously unknown and untouched, he shook and erupted in hideous laughter. His reflection has now scattered as the swamp water rippled and quaked against his violently shaking body. The marsh’s inhabitant grew deathly still and quiet as they memorized the call of this new and terrible predator.


	5. A New Name, A New Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Joker has his revenge against the man who helped create him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains graphic violence

Richard Gryell was considered by many to be an upstanding and reasonable man. He was hardworking, God fearing, a devoted father, and a man of his word. A simple man with a simple life, the Gryell farm was located a few miles to the east of Gotham, nestled in the fertile grounds near the Mason Dixon Line between Maryland and Pennsylvania. It was a modest operation growing enough tomatoes, tobacco, and barley to keep the Gryell family fed and sheltered. Newly free from the Emancipation Proclamation, underpaid black workers harvested and tended the fields. Mr. Gryell took the horse and wagon into Gotham to sell the day’s goods. He left early in the morning and returned around supper time, six days a week. Running later than usual, Gryell made the slow trek home after he’d hocked his crops to vendors to meet the city’s demands. The painted wagon read “Gryell Farms” with a sea of grinning cartoon tomatoes saying the company slogan “Gryell makes me smile!” The now empty wagon bobbed along the road until it entered the Gryell’s property, and the tired horses instinctually took a sharp right towards the stable. After unhitching and feeding the horses in the barn, Gryell’s stomach moaned in hunger, eager for the grub Joanna had prepared for evening’s supper.

As he approached the house, the inviting candlelight illuminated the windows against the dusk’s dying glow. He scraped the mud from his boots on the porch before entering the house. Despite the house being lit, it was unusually quiet. Normally their boy, Robert, would be making some sort of commotion or at least Joanna’s rustling in the kitchen could be heard. He made his way to the dining room, half expecting dinner to be ready despite the empty house. The table was empty aside from a few lit candles, casting Richard’s dancing shadow onto the green painted walls of the dining room. He entered the kitchen, his footsteps the only sounds in the house. Where is everybody, he thought.

“Joanna?” he finally shouted. Nothing. “Joanna, where are you?”

With his ears ready and waiting for a response, he could just barely make out the sounds of a faint and haunting melody. Confused, he tried to orient the sound. It was coming from outside. The backyard. He opened the door to the backyard from the kitchen, and beheld the source of the music. A haphazard tent constructed of bed sheets, curtains, and utility canvas hummed a sinister tune. Two panels had been peeled back to create a door, enticing Gryell with morbid and fearful curiosity. Still wearing his pistol he carried to deter thieves on the road, he quietly slipped it from its holster and cautiously entered the tent. A damaged music box, its faceplates dented and scarred, squealed in minor chords that made Gryell wince in discomfort. 

“Richard Gryell…” a raspy voice shouted from the shadows. Gryell squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness of the tent. The voice stepped forward and found light pouring in from the entrance of the tent.

“Rhymes with…SMILE!” Joker said as he emerged from the shadows with a huge grin. He cheeks, now sown up with crude stitches, tugged with the smile, and pools of blood gathered at the seams. Adorned in a familiar purple suit, the new addition of pasty white make up spackled his face. Richard raised his gun and pointed it at Joker’s head.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“You don’t recognize me?” Joker teased. “I guess I do look a little different these days, don’t I? It’s probably the hair!” Joker shook his head in a boisterous display, rustling rows of thick green locks and knots intertwined with strips of cloth. He chuckled seductively.

“You cut off all my hair last time. Soooo, I borrowed some from your wife. I hope you don’t mind,” Joker stated politely. “I just couldn’t keep it that color though. I’ve always found blonde hair to be so…” --he chose his words carefully—“unnatural. Disgusting. Fortunately, I was able to spruce it up with this wonderful green paint I found. I wear it better than your dining room, don’t you think?”  
Gryell wore a look for confusion and dismay. Then he uttered, “Joker Jack? Is that you?”

“Just ‘Joker’ these days,” the clown snarled. “A new name for a new act! I call it “white face”. Do you like it? I get to stroll through life with the ease and audacity of a white American man! I smile and grin with the world in the palm of my foul little hands. I own the world and I remind everybody with every chance I get!” Gryell raised his pistol and pointed it between Joker’s eyes.

“Tough crowd,” Joker said with a shrug. “No need to get testy! I’m just here to talk, and, trust me, you’ll want to hear me out. There are certain strings attached.” He gently tugged at two stings tied to his belt, one to the right and one to the left. The one to the right was tied to a flimsy piece of wood that precariously propped open the jaws of a bear trap cradling the head of a tied and bound Joanna. The string to the left rose up and attached to a linchpin that kept two ladders upright; between them, the boy Robert also bound by rope, dangled over a barrel of boiling tar.

“If you shoot me, I’ll fall to the ground which will trigger both of these traps. Little Robert will take a hot bath, and poor Joanna will get another haircut,” the clown explained. Gryell lowered his gun.

“That’s my boy!”

“What do you want?” Gryell shouted in sheer panic. Joker’s grin suddenly inversed, and he looked genuinely remorseful.

“Well, Richard, I feel a little bad about the whole pie ordeal. I feel like maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I was hoping we could, I don’t know, have a…do over?”

“A do over?” Gryell stammered.

“Yeah, I think that’s what we need. A fresh start,” Joker stated. “I brought a pie and everything.” Joker took a small step to the side to reveal a table bearing a pie heaping with cream. “What do you say, Richard? Let’s do it right this time. I promise I’ll be gentle.” Gryell wasn’t sure he understood the clown’s request.

“You want to hit me with a pie? 

“Yes.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“And if we do this, you’ll let my family go?”

“Sure, sure, absolutely. I really think this will help put things into perspective. We could both use a good laugh. It’s so tense in here right now! Let’s lighten things up and, I promise, you’ll see things in a new way.” 

Gryell looked incredulous. Joanna whimpered, tears streaming down her face. He had no choice.

“Fine,” Gryell relented. 

“Fantastic! Let the healing begin! Now just put your gun on the ground, and kick it outside the tent. You’re not going to need it,” Joker said reassuringly. Gryell did as he was told. Joker picked up the pie and beckoned the terrified man to come forward.

“Yup, right there, thanks,” Joker instructed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle with your little nose!” Joker gave the tip of Gryell’s bandaged nose a small tap.

Gryell closed his eyes, just wanting this nightmare to be over. Already chuckling, Joker drove the pie into Gryell’s face, who immediately howled in pain. The pie tin dropped to the ground, splattering thick cream onto the ground. Driven through the bottom of the pan, two railroad pikes at eye’s width apart peaked from the mound of cream. The Joker burst into a maniacal laughter!

“See things a little differently now?” Joker cackled as the poor man clutched his bleeding face. Joanna and Robert wailed in despair, knowing unspeaking horror lay ahead. Richard doubled over onto the ground, having failed his family. The delighted Joker spun in wild circles.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, have we got a show for you tonight!”

After Joker had had his fun in the tent, he went alongside the Gryell house to the cellar doors that led beneath the house. He pulled loose the chains coiled around the handles, unfastened the lock and rapped twice upon the double doors.

“Ready or not, here I come!” he exclaimed as he swung open the doors. He scanned the dirt floor, and saw a half a dozen bodies strewn about. Beneath the low ceiling of exposed floor boards stopped a giant black men with a blood soaked shiv. He looked uncertain but not afraid of the Joker, who was almost half his size.

“I did what you asked. None of them wanted to join. Just me,” the giant man said.

“You did good, Clyde,” Joker said, legitimately impressed. “Gryell ain’t gonna give you shit no more.” 

Clyde spit on the cold dirt floor. Gryell had owned Clyde once upon a time, but now allegedly paid for his work. The death of his former master brought the worker no grief.

“Hey, I got you something.” Joker tossed Gryell’s pistol to Clyde. The giant man smiled before tucking the pistol into his waist band. Joker paced back and forth between the bodies of the dead field workers, calculating his next move.

“You’d been with Gryell for a bit, hadn’t you?” Joker asked. Clyde nodded. 

“You seen his friends?” 

“Sure. Few of them would come by the house.”

“The men who did this to me,” Joker said, running his fingers over his face, “one of them was named Phillip. That sound familiar?

“Yeah, probably Phillip Mays. He owns that firework factory. Um, Gotham Pyrotechnic and Display.”

“Fireworks?” Joker said enthusiastically, his eyes full of wonder, his mind full of possibilities. 

__________________________

Two days later the Gotham Police department was alerted to the murders that had happened at the Gryell farms. The reporter from the Gotham Tribune, who had covered part of the war, cringed as he chose what details had to be omitted from print due to their extreme and indecent nature. The police photographer lost his lunch, twice. Like a new god-like deity, Joker had created the Gryell family is his own image. They all bore twisted and terrifying smiles.

Robert’s smile had been drawn on with a finger, cutting through the thick tar encasing his head.

Joanna’s smile was the bear trap digging deep into her mouth and from the back of her skull.

And Richard Gryell’s mouth had been ripped open from a noose drawn back tight, identical to the Joker’s accident. The flies made a feast of his sun baked wounds.

The whole family had been propped up on the porch bench facing the street. Richard’s arms were around his wife and child on both sides of him, and his feet were resting cross legged on a vegetable crate bearing his signature motto. Richard Gryell was a man of his word, in life and death, to his family, to his business, and to the Joker himself: “Gryell makes me smile!”


	6. Creatures of the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman investigates his lead on Cobblepot's illegal shipping operation.

As soon as the sun had taken its leave, Batman donned his cape and cowl and plunged into the growing darkness of Gotham. Slipping from shadow to shadow, he headed east towards the harbor. The downtown corridor was bustling with activities of a thriving city. Restaurant windows showed full tables and hurried waiters keeping up with demands. Bar flies collected around the doors of their favorite watering holes recanting old tales and dirty jokes. Music from dance halls and venues poured out into the street through open doors, hoping to snag a passerby with their loud and fast melodies. Hypnotized by the sights and sounds of the streets, very few of them looked towards the dark night sky. Even fewer caught the flits of motion from the Caped Crusader as he bounded across rooftops.

The closer Batman got to the harbor, the sexy sounds of the social downtown nightlife fell quieter and quieter. The train yard and industrial area of Gotham weren’t inviting places to be when the sun went down. Gas powered street lamps dotted the rows of dark ware houses, islands of light in a sea of darkness. The occasional train whistle split the night, and a few insatiable gulls cried out for their last meal of the day. With light and sound now diminished, Batman’s senses were fully alive and alert to the smallest change. In his element, his reflexes were that of Greek myth, so he flew with ease between pier cranes with the effortless crack of his whip. 

Landing on the wide roof a warehouse two blocks over from Franklin Street, he returned his whip to his utility belt and pulled out his collapsible telescope. He scanned over the entrances. A pair of large double doors on the south side of the building were open, and men were unloading wooden crates from a wagon nearby. A few windows on the south side were lit up from the activity inside, but the northern side of the building was dark and quiet. A lone patrolman with a rifle came around the corner and continued his perimeter check. Batman mind raced over plans and outcomes, imagining contingencies for contingencies. Then his mind halted, full stop.

“You can come out now,” he said over his shoulder. From behind the brick arch on the roof ledge, two eyes blinked out of sight, then returned more relaxed. Emerging from the shadows slinked the slender figure, blacker than the dead of night, only detectable if all of one’s senses focused on it. The clouded moon only revealed her general shape, her lean shoulders and powerful hips. Still, her outline confirmed Batman’s suspicion. It was Selina.

“What are you doing here?” Batman pressed in a hushed growl.

“Asked one creature of the night to the other,” replied Selina in a thick Jamaican accent. “Can’t a lady take a stroll in the night without being interrogated?” She took a step forward, revealing herself a bit more. Very similar to Batman, she was dressed in form fitting, custom tailored leather. The top half of her face was covered with a mask, and two tight pointed braids of hair poked out from either side of her head.

“I know what you are. I’ve been watching you,” Batman said.

“You didn’t seem to notice me at Siren’s Call last night,” she gloated. 

Batman stood silently.

“Stoic to a fault, the Batman of Gotham,” she teased as she moved within arm’s reach of Batman. 

“Stay out of my way, Selina,” he warned with a snarl. The corners of her lips curved into a fraction of a smile, impressed that he knew her real identity. 

“Or?” she challenged, not intimidated in the least.

“You’re a criminal. You’ll answer to the law.”

“So I steal,” she relented. “How else is a black woman supposed to make any money in this country, eh? Don’t accuse me of being without morals. I only take what’s already been taken. A thief’s honor is still honor.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Batman said.

“Sure. What do you tell yourself?” she shot back and pressed the sharpened claw of her index finger into Batman’s chest. Instantly Batman’s forceful grip was around her wrist. She gasped in surprise, then backed off, having found Batman’s limit. He released her. She chuckled.

“Your hands are fast,” she admitted, “but mine are faster.” From her left hand dangled Batman’s whip. She admired her new toy, testing its strength with a few tugs. Batman scowled, but he let her have her fun.

“Tell you what, Batman: you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours,” she warned him coldly, falling back into the shadows. “I’m not looking for a war. I’m just looking for my fair share, and I’d hate to have to keep embarrassing you.” She turned and flipped off the edge of the building, and was swallowed up by the darkness of the night. 

He considered chasing her, but that’s probably what she wanted, he thought. Besides there were more pressing matters at hand: the gross overreach of Cobblepot’s trading empire. When he was convinced she was gone, he turned back to the warehouse and eyed a row of windows beneath the arched roof’s ledge. He instinctively reached of his whip and found its place on his belt now empty.

“Dammit,” he muttered in contempt. He quickly ran his fingers over the inventory of tools stashed in his utility belt to ensure Selina hadn't scored anything else. Reassured of his arsenal, he silently floated to the dark streets below. In a flash, he raced towards the warehouses walls on the dark northern side of the building. Leaping meters off of the ground, he bounced between brick support columns that lined the building and fell silently on the roof. His lock pick set made quick work jimmying the window open, and the Batman slipped inside just as the guard rounded the corner below. 

Dropping to the floor, Batman observed the warehouse was split in two by a giant canvas. The men on the illuminated southern side of the warehouse were busy unloading a shipment, conversing casually on lewd topics. Batman swiftly moved between rows and rows of wooden crates and barrels. He pulled small vial of seawater from his utility belt, and shook it rapidly. The vial glowed a faint turquoise from the disturbed bio-luminescent algae, a technique he’d learned abroad and kept a steady supply of in the cave. Running the vial over the crates, the list of companies was from far and wide: Guinea Company of Scotland, East India Company, Luther Company and Assets, Afghan-German Trading Company, Southern Cameroon Company among others. As numerous as the companies were goods these crates contained: exotic spices, rare minerals and precious stones, ivory carvings, opium, silk goods, Caribbean rum, animal furs, and the latest cameras with tintype development. A few even had shipping itineraries pasted onto them, and none of them listed Gotham as a final destination. Cobblepot had to have pirated these. Batman pulled a small notebook from his utility belt and scribbled the names of the companies and their shipping routes. 

“Where you do you want the Wayne goods?” a voice in a thick Alabama accent asked from the far side of the building.

“What is it? Let’s see. Oh, telegraph machines. Put them in back next to the Northern Trader pile,” another Southerner responded. 

Batman knew these had to be stolen. The Union Navy had ordered a shipment of these from Wayne Industries a few weeks ago. He had all the proof he needed now to take Cobblepot down. The Batman faded into the shadows while the worker pushed aside the heavy curtain with his dolly. As the worker was slowing the cart, he noticed a nickel on the floor where he was supposed to unload his crates and bent over to pick it up. Batman pounced on the distracted man, and put him in an unbreakable choke hold with his strong left hand covering the struggling man’s mouth. His muted screams were almost undetectable. Almost.

“Gordon?” a voice from the other side of the curtain called. “You alright?”

Silence.

“Mel, open the curtain!” the voice barked. Rusty wheels squealed in distress from the rafters as the curtain rose. Three men advanced with revolvers in one hand and lanterns in the other. Their orbs of light pressed forward in the dark, minding the corners and shadows of the warehouse’s maze of goods. Their light found Gordon, crumpled over on the floor. A fourth man, presumably Mel, drew his gun as he passed under the curtain to join the other men.

“Jesus, what the hell happened?” one of the men said aloud. 

Descending from the rafters, Batman hurled a bat shuriken and severed the thick rope of the curtain pulley system. The thick canvas unrolled rapidly and loudly, knocking Mel off his feet and gathering the attention of the others. Landing behind the trio, Batman slammed his right fist into the temple of the left man. The man on the right got off a shot before 3 shuriken buried themselves into his knuckles. The center man had Batman in his sights before Batman dove forward and jammed the burning lantern into his face. Batman took a shot to the ribs, sure to be bruised if not broken. The right man had his fists raised and a grin of satisfaction from having landed the blow. The street brawler proved no match for Batman’s dozen mastered fighting technique, and soon lay unconscious on the warehouse floor after a series of vicious strikes. Batman heard the canvas rustling, and saw Mel getting to his feet. Batman charged at full speed and slammed his shoulder into Mel’s soft gut, drove him through the canvas and into the ground of near the open loading dock doors.

“How’d you get the Wayne goods?” Batman roared, his face inches from the pinned man’s.

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Mel spat, his eyes full of fear. 

“Let me help you remember,” Batman snarled.

“Hey Batman,” a voice shouted from the loading doors. The guard from outside. His rifle ready to take Batman’s head off. “Burn in hell, you sonuva—“

The sharp crack of a whip sounded half a second before the shot went off, the bullet ricocheting off the floor a few feet from Batman. Beneath him, Mel used to the opportunity to reach for a knife in his belt. Batman hammered him with his fist before he could, knocking him into oblivion. At the door, Batman witnessed Selina land a flurry of brutal kicks to the midsection and head on the guard, who soon fell to the floor. Selina stepped over the man into the building. As she approached him, Batman’s hand was poised ready on his utility belt, unsure of her intentions. 

“I’ll admit: it comes in pretty handy” Selina said as she neatly coiled the whip. “What else do you have on that belt?”

“I told you to stay away. You have no business here, Selina.”

“If you know my name, you probably know that Cobblepot’s business is my business too.”

“Then why’d you help me?”

Selina shrugged. 

“I’ve been known to bite the hand that feeds. I just work with the man. I don’t like him or owe him anything. He sets up jobs and I skim off the top. I’ll be done with him soon.”

“You’re done with him now. Cobblepot won’t do business in Gotham again. I’m shutting this whole operation down.” Batman said firmly. He waited for her to protest, but Selina was silent and despondent. Batman pulled some wire loops from this belt and tightened them around the unconscious Mel’s wrists. 

“Fine, shut Cobblepot down,” she finally said, “but don’t let the cops get a hold of these guys. Let them go.”

“Why?” Batman asked incredulously, putting the lock on Mel’s wire shackles.

“Because he was telling the truth! They don’t know anything,” Selina pleaded. “They’re just pawns. Black folk Cobblepot scoops up for cheap. They do what he asks because they’re desperate, Batman. Desperate black men acting in desperation, that’s all it is. Let them go.”

Batman looked down at Mel, the black man still unconscious. The other goons, still scattered on the floor behind the curtain too, also black. Batman considered Selina’s proposition. His moral code, a strict binary of right and wrong, wasn’t so flexible. His heart may have felt sympathy for them, but it certainly didn’t feel the empathy Selina’s cry for help required. He stared into her eyes coldly.

“No.”

She was taken aback by his callous reply. How could a herald of justice be so merciless? she thought.

“Look at his neck!” Selina ordered in rage. “Right side, just beneath his collar!” Batman normally wouldn’t have humored a request like this, but the pain in Selina’s voice was unmistakable. He slipped his fingers into the collar of Mel’s shirt. Branded into his neck was the outline of a bird and beneath it were the initials “S.C.”

“What is this?” Batman inquired.

“It’s the brand of the Scarecrows. Have you heard of them?” she said, her voice cracking slightly.

“I’ve heard…rumors,” he replied cautiously.

“It’s no rumor. It’s where Cobblepot gets most of his men, the auction they run. They’re run-aways, bought and sold on the black market. They work for Cobblepot because their other option is slavery in the South. If you send them to prison, there’s a good chance they’ll get sent back.”

“The Union wouldn’t do that.”

“They do. They will.”

Batman stood crestfallen, his chin in his chest and his eyes on the floor. The weight of his choices had become an unbearable burden. His code cracking with every passing second.

“Selina, I can’t…” Batman struggled. 

She walked up next to him and stared deep into his eyes. The fire he’d seen in her eyes was gone. There were no tears in her eyes, but he could see an unrelenting sadness churning inside her. A wound so deep and painful that it would never truly heal. He saw the smallest reflection of himself in blacks of her eyes; traces of his parents. His father’s chin, his mother’s nose. Selina unloosened the threads that cinched her top and pulled aside the leather from her skin. On the base of her neck was the same crow brand.

“Let us go,” she whispered. “We can’t go back.” 

She then quietly cinched her top while Batman stood frozen.

Like the moments after the gunshot he’d heard as a child, Bruce’s mind plummeted into darkness. An impenetrable shroud of melancholy and despair. ‘How could this possibly be the state of things?’ the dying boy inside him asked as his innocence died a little more. Hope became a rotting fallacy that withered into nothingness. The void consumed him.

Then a spark. Tiny at first, but it started to grow. Fury feeds its hungry appetite. Rage fans the rising flames. The darkness is suddenly dwarfed by a white hot inferno of anger. The Batman clinches his jaw and his fists, his wrath imminent and terrible.

“They go free,” he agreed, “on one condition.”

Selina waited for the terms.

“Tell me where to find the Scarecrows.”


	7. Finders Keepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman investigates Scarecrow's illegal auction, and Joker crashes the affair

From the outside, The Barn looked like a common, unassuming building that housed animals, hay, and supplies like thousands did across the country. Located on the southern-most border of Gotham between the city and the corn fields, The Barn was easy to overlook as a given in the agricultural landscape. The dark, maroon paint chipped and peeled from the barn’s walls after years of storms rolling in from Gotham Harbor. It’s rustic innocence made it nearly invisible.

Most nights, The Barn sat dark and empty, void of all life and activity. Having been sold there not long ago, Selina informed Batman of their code: following the lunar calendar provided in the “Farm and Field Almanac”, the Scarecrows held their secret slave auction in the dead of night under a full moon. Under the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850, run-away slaves were supposed to be returned to their rightful masters, but the Scarecrows’ racket of slaves falling into their laps and eager buyers was too profitable to pass up. Their business philosophy and password to enter events was “Finders, Keepers”.

On the night of the full moon, Batman freely prowled the corn fields as he watched the steady trickle of guests arrive at The Barn. He knew no Scarecrows would be patrolling the field on such an important night. As more and more buyers arrive, Batman fumed as he saw judges, politicians, business tycoons, and military officers enter The Barn. When The Barn had reached its fill, two armed guards donned in their scarecrow burlap hoods closed the two large front doors. 

Convinced the evening’s proceedings were underway, Batman unearthed the long ash-wood pole he’d buried in the crops a few nights before. Over 15 feet long and reinforced by tightly wrapped coir rope, Batman raised the pole with both hands and sprinted for The Barn’s southern facing wall. As he approached the structure, Batman drove the pole’s end into the soft earth, and vaulted himself onto The Barn’s steeply sloped roof. He stored the pole in The Barn’s gutters, then scaled the roof towards the double doors. Extending himself over the apex of the roof, Batman studied the loft hatch a few feet below him; below that stood the double front doors and guards with rifles. Needing a distraction, Batman lobbed a small smoke bomb into the cornfields below.

“What the hell is that?” one guard said to the other as smoked rose from the tall cornstalks. They both raised their rifles before moving to the fields to investigate the disturbance. Batman jimmied the small loft window open, and slipped inside unnoticed. 

Inside, The Barn was alive with the buzz excited murmurs of the buyers, punctuated by the sharp cries of the auctioneer. Batman clung to the shadows of the loft stacked with bales of hay, hidden from the pulsating glow from the gas lamps below, taking in the treacherous scene. The stalls lining the barn walls had been outfitted with iron bars, and were filled with the sunken shoulders of black men, women, and children. In the central floor, a sea of white heads shifted back and forth, broken by the sudden burst of an arm hoping to seal a deal. Brown burlap hoods dotted the floor accompanied by the barrels of rifles, and on a small stage at the end of the barn stood the auctioneer himself, his own burlap mask more terrifying than the others. Unlike the well-dressed buyers before him, the auctioneer’s dirt and blood stained garb proved the brutality of his trade. 

“Up next is Mala. Female, forty two years old, five foot six inches, one hundred fifty pounds. Illiterate, but can cook and clean. A nice, capable house slave,” the auctioneer blared as he read the details from his ledger. A hooded goon shoved the terrified slave forward, clutching her left arm. Not even looking at Mala, the auctioneer strutted the stage and scanned the crowd for any eager buyers. 

“Bidding starts at ninety dollars.”

The crowd met the offer with a few coughs and a skeptical silence.

“Why’s she holding her arm like that?” a man up front asked.

“What’s that?” the auctioneer replied, playing dumb.

“Show us your arm!” another voice from the back shouted. Mala cautiously revealed her arm, bandaged up in a dirty linen cast. The crowd groaned and hissed in protest.

“Oh yes, her arm was broken during her apprehension,” the auctioneer relented. The crowd jeered in disgust.

“Quit selling broken goods, Crane!” the man up front barked. “I’ll give you sixty dollars.”

“Bidding starts at ninety!” Crane shot back. He frantically looked for a buyer. The crowd drove their hands into their pockets, insulted at the Scarecrows attempt to swindle them. The man up front   
pounced at the opportunity.

“That arm is gonna take weeks to heal. Meanwhile, I’ll have to feed her. I’ll give you…fifty dollars.”

Crane shook his head in disgust, but no other offer came. He reluctantly agreed.

“Sold for fifty dollars to Judge Turpin!”

Mala was shoved to the right side of the stage where a man stood stoking a furnace. He searched her body with his fingers, and ended upon the raised scar tissue of a brand on her shoulder. The brand man made a two quick slashes to form an “X” over the old brand. Two hooded guards held Mala as the brand man drove the glowing crow brand into the base of her neck. Mala screamed and writhed in agony.

As much as he wanted to intervene, Batman knew it would take more than fisticuffs to shut down this operation for good. He needed proof that could stand in a trial. Batman pulled out his notebook and started to write down the name of buyers. The one’s he didn’t recognize were soon revealed to him from Crane’s screeching call.

As the auction continued rambunctiously inside, a carriage drawn by two horses pulled in near the barn’s double doors. The guards had their guns at the ready as the mysterious figure climbed down from the carriage’s perch. The character swayed to and fro as he approached the armed guards.

“What’s the password?” one of the guards said firmly.

“Findersssss, keeeeepers” the man slurred, as he raised a bottle to his lips with one hand while keeping his top hat on his head with the other.

“Phillip May? Is that you?” a guard asked as he peered into the man’s face.

“Tis indeed!” Phillip cackled in reply.

“Are you drunk, sir?”

“It’s entirely possible,” Phillip said slyly before raising the bottle to his lips again. 

“Looks like your face is bleeding, Mr. May,” the other guard said as he examined the drunk man’s face.

“Is it?” Phillip said in drunken distress. “Sonuvabitch! I shaved before I came here. Wanted to look presentable, after all! Guess I took off more that I was hoping for!”   
He giggled at his own joke while the guards stood in silent concern. He tucked the bottle into his coat pocket and pulled out a pipe. A loud hiccup rippled through his body before he bit on the pipe’s mouthpiece. 

“Say, one of you boys have a light?” Phillip said, craning his neck to stick out the pipe. One of the men reached into his pocket and retrieved some matches. As he lit the match next to Phillip May’s face, the guard saw in Phillip’s face looked like a crumpled page of paper, the skin loosely pressed onto another’s skull. The guard’s eye caught a twinkling eye from the mask’s empty eye hole. Phillip May instantly ran a shaving razor’s edge over the guard’s throat, cutting through the burlap hood like warm butter. With a quick spin, he slammed his hand over the mouth of the other guard and stroked the blade against his Adam’s apple. The lit match was still burning on the ground, and Phillip May picked it up to light his pipe. He strolled back to his carriage and began to remove his cargo, piling wooden planks, chains, and a lock near the barn’s double doors.

Inside, Batman had written down nearly all of the buyers in the attendance. A few more guests to go and he could make his move.

“Up next we have Affey. Female, twenty seven years old, five foot four inches, one hundred and thirty five pounds. Illiterate, capable of both indoor servitude and field work. Bidding starts at one hundred twenty dollars!”

A flitting of hands marked the air as the price rose steadily. Suddenly from the back of the room, Batman heard a new raspy voice bid. His hiding place in the loft above the doors prevented him from seeing his new bidder.

“One hundred twenty,” a man near the cages slaves cried.

“One hundred thirty,” the man in the back said.

“One thirty five!”

“One fifty!” the raspy voice howled in delight.

“One fifty five!”

“Five hundred dollars as I live and breathe!” the voice cackled. The crowd let out a startled gasp and turned to meet the new bidder. The top hatted figure pointed his face to the ground and puffed on his pipe.

“Phillip May?” a man scoffed aloud 

“In the flesh!” the raspy voice replied, followed by a sloppy hiccup.

“Your bid is absurd, sir! What is the meaning of this?” ranted a perturbed buyer. Phillip May let out a terrible sigh and a whimper. His whole body shook as he began to cry melodramatically. 

“Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m just not myself,” Phillip May sobbed as he pulled out his bottle from his coat. “Really, I just wanted your attention. You see, I found out some terrible news! Where’s my dear friend Frederick Nielsen! Fred, I need to tell you!”

The crowd parted to reveal the lumbering Frederick Nielsen with a look of confusion on his face.

“I’m here, Phil. What’s this terrible news?”

“They’re all dead! All of our friends!” Phillip May stuttered, “Richard Gryell was murdered two weeks ago! Then last week Francis Hinkley disappeared. Tonight I found out Grant Miller and Heath Fairfield were slaughtered like animals!”

Flabbergasted by the news, the buyers shook their heads and muttered to each other in shock. Frederick Nielsen’s brow furrowed in rage, his cheeks red with hot blood.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but when we find the monster who did this, we’re going to make him pay!” Frederick shouted for all to hear, his chest puffed up and proud. Phillip May’s cry transformed into giggles, then fits of wild cackling. 

“Oh, Freddie, darling, you already did. You and your boys. You’re the last one. Now I have the full set!”

“What are you talking about?” Frederick asked.

Phillip May dug his finger into his cheek and tore away the skin mask. The Joker’s eyes rolled into the back of his head in pure ecstasy as he crumpled up Phillip May’s former face in his hands.

“Finders, Keepers!” the Joker roared, his white make up stained with blood. As Frederick Nielsen recoiled in horror, the Joker flung his bottle into the air. As the contents showered over Frederick, fumes of kerosene wafted through The Barn. Frederick had wiped enough of the gas from his eyes to see the Joker lighting a black orb with his pipe. 

“Catch!” the Joker snickered as he tossed to orb to Frederick. The mortar shell exploded into a dazzling firework fanfare, and Frederick burst into flames. The brightly colored streams and detonations caught the hay and kerosene wetted wood ablaze, and The Barn was instantly a raging inferno. 

The buyers hysterically started to shove each other in an attempt to flee. Batman leapt to the loft window, and saw the Joker placing the lock on the now chained and boarded handles of the barn’s double doors. The doors bulged from the buyers trying to push their way out, but the Joker’s barrier held. Admiring his work, the Joker caught a glimpse of Batman in the loft’s open window. His face, twisted in an ugly grin, suddenly became totally enamored by the giant cloaked figure. 

“Well hello there!” the Joker flirted to the Batman above. Suddenly, the Joker flung another lit mortar into the window. Batman wrapped himself in his cape. The firework erupted, and the hot magnesium and copper compounds caused the hay covered loft to light up like a match. Batman lowered his cape just in time to see the Joker waving maniacally as he drove off in his carriage. Ready to pursue, Batman stopped when he heard the screams of the hysteria below. The slaves gripped and pounded the metal cages amidst the thick blanket of smoke, the flames inching closer from every angle. His choice became clear.

Batman dove from the loft and planted on the floor behind a hooded guard. His grabbed the barrel of the guard’s rifle, and jammed it into his skull. Now armed with the rifle, Batman turned and shot off the lock from one of the cages holding the slaves. Alerted to his presence, another Scarecrow aimed at Batman. A shot to the soft midsection with the butt of the rifle followed by a paralyzing elbow to the back of the neck downed the Scarecrow quickly. Batman tossed the new loaded rifle to a large slave emerging from the cage.

“Free the others!” Batman barked. Most of the buyers were still pounding on the locked double doors, gagging on the hot smoke. The Scarecrow guards still had the instinct to protect their property, as they cornered slaves from fleeing. Batman became a dark blur in the smoke, savagely taking out guards.

As the cages opened and slaves came pouring out, Batman heard the distinct high pitched sound of breaking glass. Behind the stage, Crane had broken the glass panes of the only small window behind the stage with the iron brand. Crane dropped out of the window, and smoke spewed out after him into the cold night. Batman ran his eyes over all the cage doors; each one had managed to get opened. He jumped up to the stage and started kicking the wall surrounding the window. The wood cracked and shattered after a few blows, and Batman grabbed a slave by the shoulders. It was Affey from moments before.

“Get as many people out as you can,” Batman ordered her before jumping out to the earth below.

“Where are you going?” Affey cried back.

“I’m going after Crane!” Batman yelled as he ran towards the corn fields. 

Crane looked back at the burning inferno as he reached the cord field’s border, and saw Batman in hot pursuit. The Scarecrow bolted into the fields, swatting away the corn stalks with the iron brand. Crane’s speed was no match for the Batman’s, who tore through the field’s at an unhuman pace. The Scarecrow’s body wouldn’t allow him to run anymore, so planted his feet, drew his pistol, and aimed in the direction he’d just fled. He panted desperately, finger dancing on the trigger. The corn stalks stood still.

Suddenly the full moon disappeared, cloaked by the mid-air Batman’s rippling cape. Batman’s knee slammed into Crane’s chest, and drove the slender Scarecrow into the ground. The still glowing brand flew from Crane’s hand and fell among the dead leaves of the corn stalks. Smoke and embers started to grow as more corn leaves caught fire. Batman grabbed both sides of Crane’s collar. The Scarecrow gasped and wheezed in pure terror.

“The fields are yours, but the night is mine!” Batman shouted. Crane’s eyes were wide with terror then rolled into his skull as Batman’s fist rendered him unconscious.

When Crane came to, the world was unrecognizable. A group of upside down men were inspecting him standing on the earth above him. Their police badges gleamed in the dawn’s sunlight. Crane’s vision came to focus and as he looked to the left he saw the now barren corn fields, burnt into ash and ruin. Behind him, The Barn smoldered, the stink of foul smoke and death clung in the air.

“What is it?” one police officer asked the other, his head turned sideways as he examined Crane’s forehead. The other police officer crouched down to get a better look. Crane was tied to a scarecrow perch upside down, and the now bent and broken brand was stabbed into the earth a few feet away.

“Looks like a bird to me,” the second officer replied. He touched the open wound on Crane’s forehead. Crane winced in pain. The first officer inspected the brand nearby. It was scratched, bent, and disfigured.

“I don’t know,” the first officer replied. “I think it’s a bat.”

Back in the cave, Batman catalogued his events from The Barn. An entire page had been dedicated to sketching a likeness of the Joker.

“The Gotham Tribune is reporting there will be a full investigation of the Scarecrow’s illegal trafficking ring,” Alfred informed Bruce as he set the paper down on Bruce’s desk. “It appears the obituaries of buyers coincide with your list of names sufficiently enough to provide credibility. A frighteningly large amount of recognizable and respectable names, I’m afraid.”

“Too many people died, Alfred,” Bruce brooded. The paper reported 24 deaths in total, black and white men alike.

“Perhaps, but I’m confident you also saved many lives, Master Bruce. Jonathan Crane needed to be stopped.”

“So does this killer clown. Sounds like he’s responsible for the Richard Gryell massacre too.”

“Never a moment of peace in Gotham,” Alfred sighed.

“Madame Duskglow’s Minstrel Show and Oddities is about to leave town. Perhaps the clown has a link to them?” Bruce thought aloud.

“It does seem like a plausible connection. We were pleasantly lacking homicidal clowns before they arrived,” Alfred mused.

“I may need your help with this one, Alfred. I suspect we’ll need to toss some money around if they know anything.”

“Certainly, Master Bruce,” Alfred said as he turned to leave Batman to his work.

“One more thing, Alfred. I want you to buy the corn fields. Now that they’re burned, we can probably get a good price for them too.”

“Very good, sir. Shall I have them replanted?”

“No,” Bruce replied. “Sow the fields with salt. I want to make sure nothing grows there every again. We’ll build there after the war.”

“But, sir, if I may be so bold, those fields provided safety for run-aways. The Scarecrows weren’t the only ones to benefit from them.”

Bruce nodded solemnly.

“I know. We’re going to be looking into mining near that area, Alfred. It’s time we expand the cave.”


	8. Sideshow Sleuthing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius Fox pays a visit to Wayne Manor. Bruce and Alfred hunt for clues at Madame Duskglow's carnival.

Down in the cave, Bruce was putting the final touches on his house slave look. He practiced his blank stare with slightly his mouth slightly open. Alfred stood next to Bruce in the large mirror, inspecting their alter egos.

“Before we go to Madame Duskglow’s, Lucius Fox said he wanted to come by. I took the liberty of making an invitation, Master Bruce,” Alfred informed Bruce as he fixed Bruce’s collar.

“Lucius is always welcome, day or night, Alfred,” Bruce said. Truth was Bruce really enjoyed Lucius’ company. A trusted advisor and inventor from when Thomas Wayne had been alive, Lucius had been informed of Bruce’s night time escapades. Bruce valued Lucius’ scientific mind and his passion for innovation. It was also extremely relieving to not have to put on airs when Lucius was around. Other than Alfred, Lucius was the only other person who knew Bruce Wayne was actually alive.

When Lucius arrived with a suitcase in hand, Bruce answered the door.

“Hello, Bateman,” Lucius said with a coy smile. Bruce tried not to return the smile as Lucius entered Wayne Manor. Lucius chuckled as he took off his coat “Of all the names you could have come up   
with…”

“I thought it was a little on the nose myself, Mr. Fox,” Alfred chimed in as he entered the foyer. “You know how stubborn Master Bruce can be when he’s made up his mind though.”

Lucius and Alfred loved to gang up on Bruce when the occasion called for it. Bruce sighed loudly before leading the men into Thomas Wayne’s study.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Fox?” Bruce asked. “Are you here to talk with Bruce or---

“Bateman? Well a little of both,” Lucius interrupted jovially as he took a seat in one of Thomas ornate leather chairs. “I heard your whip ran off in the night.”

“It did,” Bruce replied sternly, giving Alfred a dirty look. Alfred paid no mind. 

“Well, I have something you might like better,” Lucius said as he cracked open his suitcase. “It’s a new utility belt. The buckle is actually a collapsible hook attached to a spring loaded cable rappel system.”

He tossed the belt to Bruce. The collapsible hook served as the belt buckle, shaped like a bronze bat. Bruce pulled it out, and tugged on the thin metal cable attached to the hook.

“It can be used as a weapon I suppose, but its primary purpose is for scaling up and down walls. As long as you can throw the hook accurately, that is,” Lucius explained. “It will safely hold your weight, and maybe another person, depending on amount of stress applied.”

“Maybe?” Bruce scoffed in shock.

“I’m happy to take it back if it doesn’t suit you,” Lucius proposed with a smirk.

“No, no, thanks. I’ll figure it out,” Bruce replied.

“I suspect you will, Mr. Wayne,” Lucius said with a smile. “We also need to talk about Wayne Industries. According to our military sources, General Lee has been amassing Confederate forces in Maryland, and there are rumors he’s going to push into Pennsylvania. As Chairman of the Board, the board is recommending Wayne Industries begins to move the majority of its assets to Boston. We’ve also looked into setting up a headquarters in Montreal, if it comes to that.”

“Do you think it’ll come to that?” Bruce inquired. “Any invasion wouldn’t be permanent. The Union can’t conceivably be occupied by the Confederacy. It doesn’t have the economy for that, the troops, the infrastructure. Their time is running out. This is a move of desperation.”

“In my experience, a desperate man is a dangerous one, best avoided if possible,” Lucius stated somberly.

“You support the move north then?”

“I’m not without opinions, of course, but I support whatever decision you make, Mr. Wayne. That’s how I advised your father, and that’s how I’ll advise you too.”

Bruce paced the room, running the possibilities in his head. He walked behind his father’s old desk and his fingers traced the leather chair tucked behind it. To this day he’d never sat in that chair. It felt like a violation to his father’s greatness, a trespassing. Bruce’s business acumen was deficient to that of his father’s. Bruce’s passion never mimicked Thomas’ lifework; instead he was consumed by his father’s death and the ghosts of expectation and uncertainty. Bruce sighed.

“Wayne Industries has only been able to succeed because the people of Gotham have made it so,” Bruce stated, “I want to preserve what my father built, to honor his legacy, but we can’t abandon this city.   
Gotham and Wayne Industries have grown and prospered together. I truly believe one can’t live without the other. We stay.”

Lucius nodded, admiring Bruce’s resolve.

“I’ll let the board know of the decision this afternoon, and draft a list of precautions we can take to ensure Gotham stays safe” he said as he picked up his briefcase. “You let me know if there’s anything else I can help, er, Bateman with. You know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Lucius,” Bruce said. Lucius waved as he left the study, but then turned around.

“He’d be proud of you, Bruce,” Lucius Fox said with a sad smile, “They’d both be so proud.”   
_________________________

When Bruce pulled the carriage into the field occupied by Madame Duskglow’s show, the giant tent was being taken down. Attractions were being disassembled to be crated and shipped off to the next location, probably Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. The illusion of grandeur and mystery had been replaced with hustling men wielding tools and chewing on cigarette butts.  
Bruce parked the carriage and opened the door for Alfred, who leaned heavily on his cane. 

“Where would you like to start, Bateman?” Alfred asked. As they looked around, a sharp voice cursed above the steady hum of packing and dismantling.

“Pull your head out of your ass for two seconds and think, would you? You can’t put the curtains next to the animal feed, you idiot! They’ll stink to high hell!” screamed a short, middle aged woman. Bateman pointed with his chin in that direction.

“Yes, a fine place to start,” Alfred agreed. They cut through workers and approached the cursing woman. Presently she was rolling a cigarette on a crate marked “Concessions/Food Stuff”. She lit the fresh cigarette with the butt of the nearly dead one in her mouth.

“Good afternoon,” Alfred said politely, “I’m hoping to speak with Madame Duskglow.”

“You with the IRS?” she asked as she tossed the dead butt onto the trampled soil.

“Uh, no,” Alfred replied.

“In that case, I’m Madame Duskglow. What can I do for you?”

“Madame, my name is Alfred Pennyworth. I saw your show the other night, and I must say I was over the moon impressed,” Alfred lied “I’ve always been a great admirer of the performing arts. I was wondering if your production would be in need of a sponsor?”

Madame Duskglow’s eyes went wide with delight at the prospect of new money.

“Mr. Pennyworth, I’m flattered that you enjoyed our show! We’re always on the lookout for producers who have a refined taste for the arts. Our little troupe, we’re like a family, you know. And please, call me Dusky!”

Madame Duskglow threw her arm around Alfred, and began to shower him with tales of their talented cast of performers. 

“Our troupe is the best in the country, Mr. Pennyworth. We have it all! Pappy Cottonpatch is a headlining dream. We have over 20 different exotic animals. Our sideshow attractions are second to none. We have a grotesque bearded lady, the incredible strongman, the killer crocodile man, the unbelievable human pin cushion…”

Alfred nodded rapidly with an eager but pretended enthusiasm as Madame Duskglow continued to boast about her attractions. Bruce followed them from behind, surveying the workers around him. His eye was drawn to a small tent. It was made of a sickly green canvas, lacking the bright colors other attractions and spectacles had. Oddly, nobody came near it. The tent was an island of stasis amidst the ruckus of busy hands.

Bruce slowed his pace, and Alfred and Madame Duskglow soon turned out of sight behind the row of loaded wagons. Bruce innocently wandered to the tent. When he was convinced he was in the clear, he ducked into the darkness.

Inside the tent it was pitch black. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed tiny beams of light from the holes in the canvas where thin rope bound the tent together. In the center of the tent, only a few feet away, Bruce’s struggling eyes could just make out what looked like a giant box. It was draped in another canvas. The box was enormous, and must have been at least six feet wide, six feet long, and 8 feet high. Bruce put his hand out to grab the drape and pull it aside.

“Who’s there?” a deep voice growled. Bruce pulled back his hand and held his breath, becoming totally silent.

“I know you’re there,” the voice said. “I can feel the vibrations of your footsteps in the water.” 

Bruce continued to stay silent.

“Ooooh, you’re not supposed to be in here?” the voice gurgled in curiosity, “What do you want?”

“I need some answers,” Bruce finally replied in his gruff Batman tone.

“What do you want to know?” 

The slight sound of water splashing made Bruce uneasy.

“Who are you?” Bruce asked.

“Just another one of the freaks. What about you? Let me see your face. Pull off my cover.”

Bruce pulled out his Batman cowl from his inner jacket pocket and put it on. He slowly pulled the canvas from the box. Inside was a giant glass water tank, reinforced with iron bars. In the water, Batman could make out a giant dark mass standing in the tank.

“What’s your name,” Batman asked. Above the water’s surface, Batman could make out the dark outline of a large head.

“Waylon. What’s yours?”

“Batman.”

“Shit!” Waylon chuckled in his deep bass voice. “I’ve heard about you. You gonna join our show?”

“I need information about your fellow performers,” Batman pressed.

“Why should I help you? What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

Waylon slowly paced his tank, his details hidden by the water and the darkness.

“My life is terrible. I’ve accepted that. I can’t change what I am. I’ll be captive my whole life,” Waylon said, “There’s only one thing I want now. The one thing every monster wants: a bigger cage.”

“You’re not a monster, Waylon. You’re a human being.”

“If I wasn’t the crocodile man, I’d be just a black man. They’d still put me in a cage. I was born to be behind bars, Batman.” 

Batman’s jaw tightened in shame and anger.

“I can help you. Get you a more comfortable set up,” Batman assured the dark blur in the water, “but you have to talk first.”

“What do you want to know?”

“There’s been a string of murders and disappearances in Gotham. The suspect dresses as a clown. Have you noticed anything odd around here lately? Would any of the performers be capable of murder?”

“This is the carnival! All of them are capable of murder!” Waylon laughed.

“Fine. Your new cage walks away when I do.”

“Alright, alright. There was this one clown. Opened up the show for Pappy. He called himself Joker Jack.”

“What’s his real name?”

“Dunno. Just went by Joker Jack, even when not performing. He always seemed a little, uh, unstable, even for a carney. He used to toss trash in my tank, the little shit.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Heard he walked a couple weeks ago. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Know anybody who would have?” Batman asked. 

“Hmm, he was kind of a loner. Nobody really liked him, even his fellow clowns. Maybe try Clayface, Basil Karlo. I seen the two of them talking a few times.”

“Thank you, Waylon,” Batman said as he backed out of the tent silently.

“Don’t forget the bigger cage, Batman,” Waylon warned, “I’ll be waiting.”

Bruce slipped off his cowl and searched for Alfred and Madame Duskglow who were still touring the operation. Bruce quickly caught up and clumsily stumbled into Alfred. Alfred took the cue.

“Bateman, you imbecile! Would you excuse us for a moment, Ms. Dusky? Bateman needs a quick verbal lashing.” Madame Duskglow nodded, and Alfred swatted Bruce aside with his cane a few times. When they’d separated sufficiently, Bruce whispered to his butler.

“Ask about Clayface. Basil Karlo.” Alfred nodded then waved his hands wildly in frustration to punctuate the end to their fictitious scolding. They returned to Madame Duskglow, who was busy burning through another cigarette.

“Apologies, Ms. Dusky,” Alfred said. “You know, when I came to your show the other night, I particularly enjoyed…oh, what was his name? Oh yes, Clayface!”  
Madame Duskglow’s face soured slightly.

“Oh, yeah? Yeah, uh, Karlo is quite the spectacle, isn’t he?”

“I would very much like to meet Mr. Karlo, if he’s available!” Alfred said congenially. Madame Duskglow ferociously chewed on the end of her cigarette.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He decided to quit a couple days ago. I guess he decided to take his chances in Gotham. Hey, I’d be happy to introduce you to the tattooed girl instead!”

“I understand. Show business is such a fickle affair,” Alfred replied with disappointment. “Well, Ms. Dusky, I appreciate your candor and your tour of the grounds. I’ll speak with my accountant on working out an amount I can contribute. I’ll be in touch.”

“It was a pleasure, Mr. Pennyworth. If you need or want anything else from me, just let me know!” she cried in desperation as the two men walked away.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any more of your show poster or flyers, would you?” Alfred asked off the cuff. “I’d love some for my collection!” 

Madame Duskglow nodded frantically and then hurried away to fetch some. As Bruce and Alfred walked back to the carriage, Alfred thumbed through the show advertisements. He pointed out the list of sideshow characters to Bruce:

“Basil Karlo AKA The Clayface Man! See this puddy skinned performer change into you and your loved ones before your very eyes! Bring a photo of a deceased love one and see them again in 30 seconds! A curiosity not to be missed!”


	9. Show Time!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joker, Clayface and goons make a withdrawal from the bank

The new Gotham Bank and Trust downtown location was a feat of architecture and modern conveniences. Having had their grand opening less than a year ago, it proudly boasted all of the latest technological features: indoor toilets, running hot and cold water, a centralized radiator system, hydraulic elevators, and kerosene-lit lamps throughout the building. Perhaps equally as stunning was the beautiful building exterior which rose an unprecedented eight floors. Ornate brick patterns brought contrast between the rows of uniform windows, ledges, and arc topped columns. The bank had spared no expense, and enjoyed the acclaim of the public and the press for bringing the latest trends to Gotham.

The President of Gotham Bank and Trust, Jerome Simmons, walked up the flight of stairs to the bank’s corner entrance. He glanced at the large clock above the door. It read 8:55am. Pleased with his punctuality, Simmons entered the bank with a smile. He crossed the large floor room spotted with desks and counters and headed to short hallway which housed the elevators. 

“Good morning, Mr. Simmons,” a nearby secretary said.

“Good morning, Josephine,” Simmons replied. As he waited for his elevator, he looked at the row of portrait photographs of the bank’s senior members that hung in the hallway. Three nails hung empty, his own portrait included in the missing photos. Simmons’ faced soured slightly.

“Josephine, did we ever find out what happened to the missing portraits?” he asked, craning his neck around the corner to his secretary. 

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Simmons. I guess you have a secret admirer,” Josephine said jokingly, “The photographer will be out later this week to take replacement photographs of you and the others.”

He nodded, and then entered the elevator after the liftman opened the grated gates. Just over seven minutes had passed when another Jerome Simmons walked into the front entrance of the bank with a small briefcase. Just as before, he crossed the large floor room and headed for the elevators. Josephine tilted her head in confusion.

“You’re getting stealthy, Mr. Simmons. I didn’t see you leave,” Josephine said, clearly puzzled. Simmons smiled.

“Just wanted a newspaper,” he stated, pulling out the folded Gotham Tribune from under his arm. Instead of using the elevators, this Jerome Simmons opened the door to the stairwell. He walked down the narrow hallway and opened the locked door that led to the alley behind the building. Simmons opened the back door to reveal a smiling Joker draped in a feminine shawl, waiting patiently. Joker waved his hand to the others. Clyde and two new recruits, all dressed as milk delivery men, were unloading wax topped milk bottles and a couple large metal milk churns onto dollies from the back of Richard Gryell’s newly painted wagon, hints of painted grins still visible under the thin white paint. Once at the door, the men huddled around each other, each man held a pocket watch in the middle of the circle.

“You got twelve minutes,” Joker said, his thumb twitching on his own pocket watch. “I won’t wait for you. Make it quick and clean, boys. Most importantly, try to have some fun! Countdown starts in 3…  
2… 1! It’s show time!”

The pocket watches’ timers all clicked in perfect synchrony before the men hustled inside. The Joker had flung his shawl over his shoulders and plopped a veiled brimmed hat on his head, making a pretty convincing elderly woman when slouched over. He tucked his arm in Simmons’ elbow and the two headed for the elevators. Meanwhile Clyde kicked open the door to the boiler room and drug one of the milk churns over to the giant boiler of the centralized radiator system. He quickly turned off the gas and then started to drain the system by opening a giant faucet. Steaming water dumped into the grated basin on the floor. Clyde then ran to catch up to the other recruits who were lugging the dollies of milk bottles up the stairs.

Meanwhile, the elevator door was opened by the liftman, who pleasantly smiled as Simmons and the old lady Joker boarded the elevator.

“To my office, please,” Simmons said.

“Of course, Mr. Simmons,” the liftman said. “And who is your guest, sir?”

“Pardon my manners,” Simmons said, embarrassed at the oversight. The door to the elevator started to close as he finished “Allow me to introduce you to her.”

When the elevator got to the fifth floor, Simmons calmly got out before the elevator rose another four feet before it stopped. Once sure there were no witnesses, Joker slipped the liftman’s body to Simmons who then dropped it down the open elevator shaft. Joker pulled a ballpeen hammer from his shawl and struck the elevator control level clear off, leaving it immobilized. He slipped off the elevator, closed the gate and sliding doors before resuming his post on Simmons’ arm. They stopped in front of Jerome Simmon’s office door. Simmons looked at Joker, who nodded in return.  
When they opened the door, the real Jerome Simmons was sitting at his desk reviewing some business figures. He looked up to see himself standing in the doorway, and gasped in utter shock.

“What in the hell—,“ he managed to spew. Joker bolted from his shawl and soon had the bank president in his clutches. The president shuddered as he felt a knife’s blade against his throat. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Joker whispered into the president’s ear, “you tell us the combination to the vault or I’ll stick you like a fat pig.”

Jerome Simmons was stupefied. Mere seconds ago he was reading in his office. Now his exact likeness stood before him while a maniacal clown had a knife against his neck. He breathed heavily for a moment before regaining his composure. Jerome Simmons had been a banker in Gotham for over thirty years, so this wasn’t his first hold up.

“I won’t tell you anything, you bastards,” he said confidently, “The vault is impenetrable without the combination. Good luck getting in there without my---“

The Joker slashed his blade against the president’s throat, and Jerome Simmons thrashed on his desk as he died. Joker looked at his pocket watch. 

“Ten minutes fifteen seconds, Clayface. Let’s see if it really only takes thirty seconds,” Joker taunted with a sick grin.

“Watch and see,” the Jerome Simmons imposter said as he cracked open his briefcase on a chair. He removed the portrait of Jerome Simmons and tossed it aside. Beneath it lay a small mirror and another portrait with a small plaque embedded in the frame that read: Miles Chesterfield, Executive Vice President. Clayface dug his thumbs into his cheeks and started to mold his flesh to imitate Miles Chesterfield’s facial features. He raised his brow, flattened his nose a bit, dropped his cheekbones, and brought his eyes together a half an inch. The final touch was putting on a wig cap and wig that matched Chesterfield’s simple strawberry blonde part. Clayface turned to Joker completely transformed.

“Nine minutes fifty seconds! Not bad, Karlo!” Joker said as he flung his shawl back on. The two men then went down the hall, passing a few fellow bankers. The new Miles Chesterfield smiled and waved as they headed towards the executive vice president’s office.

Up on the eighth floor, the recruits quickly moved between offices and meeting rooms. Clyde had already disposed of any staff that may have posed as a problem, leaving them slumped over their desks or crumpled on the floor. Now able to work with less trouble, one recruit would release pressure from the top valve of the steam radiator. Unscrewing the valve with his hand wrapped in thick cloth, he’d toss the valve head aside then carefully remove the drain plug on the bottom. Excess water spilled onto the floor. When all the steam and water has emptied, the other recruit jammed the milk bottle onto the open top valve. As the second goon replaced the bottom valve, the milk bottle emptied its contents into the empty iron coils. The level of milk never changed, however, as the bottles had been painted white. The wax seals on top of the milk bottles held well enough, except for a few drips of kerosene that managed to escape. When the recruits caught up to Clyde on the sixth floor, their pocket watches had nine minutes and ten seconds left.

When Clayface and Joker had entered Miles Chesterfield’s office, the vice president found himself in the same position Jerome Simmons had been in only minutes before. The Joker scraped the knife’s blade against Chesterfield’s throat. The vice president was even more resolute than Simmons. He refused to tell the combination. The Joker took the ballpeen hammer to Chesterfield’s knuckles. Panting wildly and on the verge of passing out from shock, Chesterfield wouldn’t divulge the combination. Chesterfield was a tenacious and proud man; it cost him his life.

“Well, shit,” Joker said as he pulled the ballpeen hammer from Chesterfield’s collapsed skull.

“I only have one more executive to mimic,” Clayface said as he started to work his face into the portly Senior Bank Manager Harold Worthy. “If he doesn’t talk…”

“Oh, he’ll talk,” Joker said as he raised his hammer. The blade of the knife rested on Chesterfield’s spine.

With six minutes left, Joker slammed the severed head of Chesterfield onto Harold Worthy’s desk. Clyde and the goons had just finished the sixth floor and were starting their rounds on the fourth.

With five minutes left, Harold Worthy took his last breath, his chubby cheeks losing their rosy color. 

With four minutes left, Clayface, still appearing as Harold Worthy, exited the elevator on the first floor and urgently crossed behind the teller’s station. He nodded warmly to the tellers as he made his way to the giant vault doors. As Clayface swung the vault’s five spoked handle around, he subtly placed his other hand on the pistol tucked into his belt. Joker had assured him Worthy was telling the truth. The clown said he could tell from the banker’s eyes. Still, Clayface was the one opening the vault, and he wasn’t keen on taking the fall in case the banker had bluffed. He carefully landed on the numbers spouted from Worthy’s bloody mouth moments before.

45-19-77-63-28

*CLICK*

Clayface sighed in relief before he heaved the large iron door open a few feet. Once he’d slipped inside, he removed his blazer, opened up the false lining on the back, and pulled out the stuffing he’d needed to make a convincing chubby Harold Worthy. He crossed to a drawer built into the vaults walls and pulled it a single drawer forward. Neatly stacked bills lined the inside. Clayface hastily started stuffing them into the lining of his jacket.

With two minutes left, Joker open the boiler room door and pulled the milk churn inside. He emptied the kerosene inside the churn into the giant boiler’s empty furnace. Joker turned the gas back on, and the odor of gas become overwhelming. Reaching inside the now empty churn, Joker pulled out a rope that had been stashed inside, soaked with kerosene. He tied one end onto a grate inside the furnace and pulled the other end with him towards the alley door. 

With one minute left, Harold Worthy speedily walked towards the bank’s front door.

“Mr. Worthy, will you be coming back this afternoon or shall I take messages for tomorrow?” Josephine said loudly.

“Tomorrow, please!” Clayface said as he left the building in a rush. He took a sharp right and hustled another three hundred feet. As he entered the alley way, Clyde and the recruits were loading up into the horse drawn carriage. When Joker saw Clayface framed inside the alley’s walls, he glanced his pocket watch. Three seconds to spare. 

Joker giggled and hummed a little tune. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a single match and struck it on the sole of his shoe. He whispered a few sweet nothings to the small flame before gently placing it atop the flammable rope. The flame raced down the rope as the horse drawn carriage raced out of the alley.

Barely half a block down the road, Joker’s eager ears perked up from harsh pops as radiators began to explode. The bank’s windows started to shatter, intermittent at first but then rapidly picking up speed like popcorn in a kettle. Flames danced and grew in the windows and charred the patterned brickwork outside. Joker’s eyes were filled with delight and awe as the building was soon ferociously ablaze!

A handful of people careened out of the front doors, coughing violently and gasping for air as thick black smoke poured out after them. Before long the large ornamental clock above the doors fell from the building and shattered on the bank steps below. Joker kicked his feet in glee before throwing his own pocket watch high into the air in celebration. The guts and gears of the pocket watch scattered upon impact of the cold, cobbled streets of Gotham. 

“I can’t believe that worked,” Basil Karlo chuckled as the carriage turned a corner, disappearing into the crowded streets of Gotham.

“I can’t believe you’d never done that before,” Joker shot back. “Your talents are wasted on the carnival, Karlo.” Clayface nodded in agreement.

“We should do this again!” he said, already spending his newfound money in his mind. “We could rob Gotham blind!”

“It’s all yours, Karlo,” Joker replied. “I’m leaving Gotham.”

“You’re leaving? Why? You’re so good at this?”

“I got my eyes on a bigger prize!”

“You gonna hit New York? Metropolis?”

Joker smiled as he saw the grand visions of his future.

“All of them. Nowhere is safe. I’m going to burn this whole goddamn country to the ground!”


	10. The Sweet Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman tracks Clayface to the illustrious Walston Hotel

In the cave beneath Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne poured over the string of recent crimes the Joker had committed, trying to calculate the madman’s next strike. Batman’s mind tried to piece together Joker’s exact words before burning down The Barn. From what Joker had alluded to, he’d been wronged somehow. Richard Gryell, Phillip May, and Frederick Nielsen had all run in the same social circle, so their murders in a plot for revenge made sense. The recent bank robbery had Joker’s name written all over it, but this was something new. Joker was getting bigger and bolder with each strike. Bruce was all but certain Clayface had been a part of the bank job as several eye witnesses reported seeing a certain bank executive in a dairy wagon. That same bank executive, Harold Worthy, was confirmed one of the deceased in the massive fire. Clayface was the only logical explanation, and Bruce shuddered at the thought of Joker gaining more and more recruits.

The Joker’s sudden rise from obscurity into mass murderer haunted Bruce, pushing his limits to understand this new broken villain. Bruce had pulled up maps and scribbled furiously over them, trying to find a next plausible point of attack for Joker. He analyzed countless bank records that could have done business with Gryell or Jonathan Crane’s Scarecrow operation. He’d had Alfred reach out to friends at different financial institutions to report any suspicious activity. Batman had pilfered some police records and found no history of The Joker or his former whereabouts. Bruce guzzled cups of coffee from morning until night trying to comprehend what compelled the Joker’s madness. After finishing his seventh cup of the day late in the afternoon, Bruce placed his mug on top of the daily edition of the Gotham Tribune with the headline “General Lee crosses Mason Dixon Line!”

Bruce was rubbing his aching eyes when Alfred hurried down the spiral staircase into the cave.

“Master Bruce, Master Bruce! I just received an urgent telegram from our account manager at Gotham First National Bank! Apparently, I made an attempt to make the maximum withdrawal!” 

Bruce’s eyes went wide with surprise. Alfred clearly wouldn’t do such a thing without Bruce’s consent.

“When?” he asked eagerly.

“If this telegram is still correct, I should be sitting in the bank lobby right now!”

“I’ll ready the carriage,” Bruce growled. “Let’s go!”

Bruce pulled the carriage up in front of Gotham First National Bank not twenty minutes later. Alfred hustled as best he could while maintaining his faux limp as the entered the bank. David Helms, manager of Alfred’s (and therefore Bruce’s) account, waved them down.

“Mr. Pennyworth, thank you so much for coming in. Apologies for the inconvenience! Please know that man didn’t withdraw any funds, and we’re taking precautions to ensure it stays that way!”

“I appreciate your quick thinking, Mr. Helms” Alfred said gratefully, “Where is he?”

“I’m afraid he left,” Helms admitted, “I tried to convince him that the withdrawal would only take a bit longer so we could confront him together. He insisted he needed to leave, but he did tell me he could be notified at the Walston Hotel when the funds were ready. I haven’t informed the police yet, but I certainly can. I thought you might want to deal with this personally.”

“No need to report this attempt to the authorities, Mr. Helms. I have some, ahem, associates who will look into the matter for me,” Alfred said, feigning an ominous tone. “You did the right think, David. Although, I am curious: how did you know it wasn’t me?”

“It was the strangest thing. He looked exactly like you, dressed like you, and even sounded like you. He didn’t use a cane though. Walked in here just fine. I’ve never seen you without your cane, sir.”  
Alfred nodded, pleased that his acting over the years had been validated. Bruce and Alfred promptly left and made the trek to the prestigious Walston Hotel. The Walston Hotel was the epitome of wealth and social standing in Gotham, practically a mandatory choice for lodging for any notable and famous traveler. Bruce entered the carriage after having parked it half a block down the road from the Walston. He pulled out a locked trunk from under the bench seat and started to transform into the Batman.

“See if you can find out what room Clayface is in. I’ll handle it from there” Batman told Alfred.

“Very good, Master Bruce,” Alfred said as he hobbled out of the carriage. Alfred entered the grand lobby of the Walston, his eyes drawn upwards from the beautiful ornate columns supporting the artfully tiled high ceiling. Potted plants were in nearly every nook and cranny, filling the lobby with a sweet aroma. Alfred headed towards the concierge’s desk.

“How may I assist you, Mr. Pennyworth? Are you enjoying you stay so far?” he asked.

“I am. This place is marvelous,” Alfred gushed. “I’m going to be doing a little shopping, so expect some bags to be delivered soon. However, I can’t remember my room number for the life of me…”

“The President’s Suite number is 601, but feel free to have any bags dropped off with me. I’ll make sure they’re delivered to your room, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“Thank you,” Alfred said. He gently placed two pennies on the concierge’s desk. Remembering his miserly character, he gave it a second thought and took one of the pennies back before returning to the   
carriage.

While Alfred waited in the carriage, Batman slipped into a nearby alley as the sun started to set, already casting long shadows from Gotham’s tall cityscape. Now behind the Walston hotel, he pulled out the collapsible hook from his utility belt. The President’s Suite laid in the middle of the hotel, inset slightly, providing a private balcony. Batman counted six floors up, and aimed for a ledge nearby. The hook cut through nearly seventy feet of air before lodging itself in the crack between two bricks. Batman’s powerful upper body allowed him to scale the hotel wall with ease and was soon perched on the ledge of the sixth floor. His body pressed firmly against the building, Batman turned the corner and worked his way to the President Suite’s balcony. Once on the balcony, Batman spied between the gaps in the curtains, and watched Basil Karlo feasting on prime rib from polished silver plates. Suddenly Karlo got up, headed towards the balcony, and opened the doors.

Karlo took a deep inhale of the warm night’s air, pleased with his new lifestyle. From the empty balcony, the panoramic view of Gotham was truly spectacular. In a flash, his view turned into the giant black cape of the Batman. The Batman rose from his crouch to a full stand on the balcony’s railing. The dying sun backlit the Batman, his face cast full of grimacing shadows.

“You’re done, Clayface,” Batman snarled. Basil Karlo spit out some of the prime rib in surprise before running back into the suite. He bolted for the door. As he reached to undo the chain lock, a thick bat shuriken sliced through Karlo’s hand flesh and cartilage, pinning his hand to the door. Karlo whelped in pain. Batman ripped the shuriken out, drove his forehead into the bridge of Karlo’s nose, then whipped Karlo around against the wall.

“I know you blew up that bank. Hope you enjoyed the sweet life while you could,” Batman bellowed. Just over Karlo’s panicked breathing, Batman heard the small wet disturbance behind him. Water splashing onto the floor. He turned to see the bathroom propped open an inch, totally dark inside. His eyes narrowed to slits. Karlo wasn’t alone. He drove Karlo back into the room, pinned him to a large writing desk, and shackled his wrist to one of the thick cross beams between the desk’s legs. 

Batman silently approached the bathroom door. He pushed it open slowly, letting the light fill the room. He saw no one initially. His eyes were then drawn to the giant clawfoot tub near the back of the room. It was filled to the brim with water, some just barely escaping to the tiled floor below. Batman inched towards the tub. A few feet away, he could just make out a dark mass inside the tub against its creamy porcelain basin.

Suddenly the water erupted. A giant crocodile man shot towards the Batman with tremendous speed and strength. He slammed Batman against the bathroom door, his fingers digging into the flesh of Batman’s shoulders. Croc tossed Batman into the suite’s main living room like a ragdoll.

“I waited for you, Batman!” Waylon yelled as he lumbered into the suite. “You never came back!” Batman finally got to fully see the reptilian man, in all his grotesque splendor. Aside from his staggering proportions, his body was covered with sickly looking scales, arranging themselves into rows of raised edges. His teeth had been filed into points, but his eyes were human.

“I can still help you, Waylon,” Batman said shakily as he got to his feet. 

“It’s too late for that, Batman,” Waylon replied, as he saw Clayface shackled to the desk. “Better the devil I know than the devil I don’t. Besides, I don’t think you could top this cage even if you tried!”

Batman quickly threw a vial at Waylon, who raised his giant hand to catch it. It shattered upon impact, and Croc’s nostrils flared in repulsion from a rancid smell. He looked at his hand, which was starting to burn. The cracks between scales began to well up with blood, irritated from the concoction. Three more vials stuck Waylon’s huge frame. His whole body began to burn and his rough skin starting cracking open.

“What the hell is this shit?” he roared.

“A solution of distilled vinegar, sodium compounds, and turpentine,” Batman said. “It’s extremely corrosive and irritable to your skin, which suffers from epidermolytic hyperkeratosis. Any comfort the darkness and water provided will soon be gone.”

Waylon’s body shook with rage and he sprinted towards Batman. Batman met Croc with a brutal kick across the jaw, but Croc was barely phased and cinched his claws into Batman’s cape. Batman’s body became a pendulum as Croc swung Batman around and slammed him into the writing desk. The wooden desk shattered, and Clayface was able to free himself, one side of the shackle still on his wrist. Clayface bolted for the door as Croc grabbed Batman’s ankle. 

Batman turned his hips and used his free leg to buckle Croc’s knees with a devastating kick. Batman jumped to his feet and started to land a series of punches to Croc’s midsection. Waylon’s scaled body was now red and sticky from the blood oozing from the irritated cracks in his skin. The Croc roared in pain with each blow before swatting Batman aside like a fly.  
His skin is still too durable for strikes to be effective, Batman thought as he recovered. 

Croc was already bounding towards Batman again and swung his huge right fist. Batman’s head faded to the left, spun behind Waylon, and wrapped his thick forearms around Waylon’s neck in a sleeper hold. Waylon gasped in shock, and tried to reach Batman over his shoulders. Croc drove his elbows backwards, punishing Batman’s ribs. Still the Batman held firm, his choke hold slipping in even deeper with the slick blood. To tighten his hold, Batman wrapped his legs around Croc’s torso and arched his body backwards. In a last effort, Croc slammed his back into the wall several times, each time crushing the air out of Batman. Slowly Croc’s knees began to shake, and Batman heaved Waylon onto his back, his grip still firm. Croc’s struggling became less and less, and finally his body went limp. Battered and bruised, Batman released blood covered crocodile man. After confirming Waylon’s vitals, Batman shackled the reptilian giant and repelled down the front of the building.

When he landed in the street, the people passing by were horrified by the blood soaked Batman. They screamed and started to flee, a small commotion erupting in the streets. Batman didn’t have time to conceal himself to the shadows. He frantically looked around for Basil Karlo. Above the screams, he heard a familiar voice.

“Batman! Batman!” Alfred cried as he limped towards Bruce. “I saw Karlo leave the building. He entered that tavern a block down the road, The Knight and Stallion! As far as I know, he’s still in there!” 

Batman bolted towards the tavern. His patience totally expired, he brazenly kicked the front door wide open. Every eye in the dusty tavern landed on the Batman. He was truly a horrifying specter: a giant black man with horns, covered in tatter black drapes, and stained with wet blood. The tavern sat wide eyed and silent.

“Where is he?” Batman barked. The bar patrons simultaneously shifted in their seats and looked at the door to the women’s water closet. The water closet door opened, and a particularly haggard looking old woman exited. The shackle on her right wrist continued to swing as her body came to a full stop when she sighted the Batman.

“Shit,” she muttered.

Outside the tavern, Batman pinned the old woman against the brick wall in the alley, his forearm buried into her throat.

“Where’s Joker?” Batman asked as he leaned his weight into the crushed windpipe of Basil Karlo.

“I don’t know!” Karlo replied. His face had been jostled and smashed, features now indistinguishable, looking a like a wad of chewed gum. Batman growled and raised Karlo’s body, his feet dangling against the wall. Karlo gasped.

“He told me…he told me…”Karlo struggled.

“He told you what?” Batman barked, relieving slightly the pressure from his forearm.

“He needed help. Needed organized…crime help.”

“Who?” Batman said, his jaw clenched tight.

“Harvey Dent,” the puddy man cried.


	11. A Stymie of Pride and Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman tracks down Harvey Dent who is believed to have helped Joker.

Finding Harvey Dent proved more difficult than Batman had anticipated. Batman had suspected a man as well documented as Harvey Dent would have been relatively easy to locate. Searching the streets by night and stacks of records by day, Batman researched about this shadowy figure of the Gotham underworld. Most notably, Harvey Dent was the first black man to pass the bar exam in Maryland, which was heavily covered by the press in the spectrum of curiosity to scathing vilification. As a practitioner of the law, Dent’s court records were easily accessible, highlighting his brilliant mind and eloquence as an orator. Batman had even found old campaign materials from when he had made an election run for District Attorney of Gotham County. After his bid for public attorney had failed and the inevitability of war became reality, Harvey Dent suddenly disappeared from the public eye entirely. There were a few gossip columns that suggested Dent may have succumbed to a disfiguring accident, but it all remained rumors and conjecture. The man had simply vanished from the public eye.

Batman’s patrols on the streets also came up empty in pointing to Harvey Dent’s location. He worked his usual alleys, bars, and dens of inequity for possible clues. From what he could gather, Dent was definitely in Gotham, but anything more specific than that eluded Batman. Anybody who might know where Dent was refused to talk, even if it meant a being roughed up from the Batman. It appeared broken bones and prison time were less offensive than double crossing Dent. Evidently, Harvey Dent inspired an unbreakable loyalty.

Presently, Batman sat perched on the roof of apartment building across the street from Tempest Alehouse. He’d been responsible for breaking fingers and cracking a few teeth at the sleazy bar below, but was no closer to finding Harvey Dent’s whereabouts. He was going over his list of patrol sites when he heard someone approaching atop the apartment.

“There you are,” Selina said as she emerged from the cover of the shadows. “I’d been looking for you for a while.”

“Here I am,” Batman replied plainly. There was an awkward yet stubborn silence between them.

“I heard you took down the Scarecrow operation. Well, you helped, anyways,” Selina said, a sly smile finally creeping across his lips.

“Thank you for the information. I couldn’t have done it with your help.”

“Heard you put away Clayface too. And Waylon “Croc” Jones.”

“And Cobblepot,” Batman said, testing Selina’s intentions. She nodded her head a little.

“Yeah, Cobblepot too. Gotham is better with those men behind bars. There’s no doubt about that…” she said as she looked past Batman. She came alongside him to gaze upon the nighttime cityscape of Gotham. 

“But…?” Batman suggested.

“But it’s not enough.”

“What do you mean, Selina?”

“I can’t stay here anymore,” she said solemnly, her body on the roof but her mind elsewhere. “In Gotham. In the States. I’m not meant to be happy here. The States aren’t meant for people like us.”

“Maybe we can change that,” Batman replied. “Lincoln is a good man and is steering this country towards justice. We’ll get there, Selina.”

Selina shook her head and a defeated sigh left her lips.

“I see you. I see Lincoln. I see a few brave and righteous men, but is it enough? Can a few decent men really bend a country to their will? I’m not sure, Batman. I don’t have the patience or the optimism to find out.”

“Where will you go?” Batman pressed.

“Home. Back to the Caribbean,” she said. The recollection of home lit her eyes, even in the dark of night. “I leave in the morning.”

“I wish you safe travels,” Batman replied. Her eyes avoided his for a few seconds before locking onto them.

“I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

Batman looked at the roof beneath his feet. A fraction of a smile flitted across his face before it resumed its stone-like persona. He was flattered and then immensely saddened by this unexpected invitation. The temptation of the fantasy came and quickly went. Selina waited for his answer.

“I can’t, Selina. I can’t leave this city, even as the country crumbles around it,” Batman uttered, “I can’t run from Gotham or this country, evil they may be. It's the reason I must stay. Things will only get better if good men and women take a stand and fight.”

“I understand,” she replied, not surprised by his answer.

“Before you go, can you help me one last time?” 

“What do you need, Batman of Gotham?” 

“I’ve reason to believe Joker is working with Harvey Dent. Nobody is willing to give me Dent’s location. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is?”

“Of course I know where Harvey Dent is,” Selina said in disbelief that Batman continued to underestimate her. “How do you think I booked passage to the Caribbean?”

“Where can I find him?”

“He’s currently operating out of the basement in the old Kane Free Library. You didn’t hear that from me, though.”

“Thank you, Selina.’

Selina backed into the shadows.

“You’re welcome,” she replied over her shoulder she made her way to the opposite side of the roof, “And feel free to join me in the Caribe if you change your mind. You’ll know where to find me…Bateman.”

She plunged off the roof and was gone.

Batman made his way towards the south side of Gotham, in the district now known as Old Gotham. True it its name, many of the buildings in Old Gotham looked decrepit, slumped over and crumbling from time and neglect. Many of the newly free run-away slaves found homes here as it was generally considered unappealing to white folks. One of the features of Old Gotham what was the now abandoned Kane University. The wealthy Kane family had hopes to establish a premier university in Old Gotham over a decade ago. As the city evolved and Old Gotham became less and less favorable to white students, the Kane family decided to abandon the site and relocate their school to the far more affluent Gotham Hills. Now the old Kane University was a graveyard full of skeletons of half completed brick buildings that were being swallowed by ivy and weeds.

By the time Batman entered the old university, the night sky had opened and sheets of rain pounded the earth below. Traversing the derelict buildings in the loud storm proved easy for Batman, darting from shadow to shadow. As he neared the Free Library, he stealthily climbed the second story of one of the dormitory buildings and perched near a window over-looking the walkway below. He waited for hours, his cape wrapped tightly around his body for warmth. Suddenly he heard men’s voices from below. A pair of black men entered the ruins of the library. While one man stood guard the other pulled off a heavy canvas from a brick pile. He slide open a door leading below that had been masked as a broken brickwork.

Without hesitation, Batman dove from the second story window and landed into a somersault. He threw the cabled hook from his utility belt, and it swiftly wrapped around the man standing guard. Batman lugged the cable towards him, and caught the guard with a debilitating clothesline across the neck. Spinning to his left, he hurled a smoke bomb towards the other man, who breathed in the noxious gas as the bomb impacted on his chest. He recovered just in time to see the heels of Batman’s boots land a vicious dropkick to his face. The Batman rose from the ground, his wet cape sticking to the earth as it fell into a tight ring around his feet. Warm air from the basement below fluttered past Batman’s chin and nostrils. He carefully opened the door a bit more, and slipped into the darkness. 

Batman quietly flowed down the flight of stairs. At the bottom was a hallway which stemmed into more hallways illuminated by a single gas lamp. A man bearing a rifle stood guard at the end of the hallway. The guard’s absentmindedness snapped into attention as the gas lamp’s casing shattered and plunged the hallway into darkness. When he lit a new match to see in the dark corridor, a shuriken struck it out of his hand and then a wet fist immediately sent him to unconsciousness. 

Batman floated down the hallways, peaking into rooms. One was filled with bunks of sleeping men. In another he heard several men eating and joking. Another was an armory with rifles and ammunition. The hallways led to a main storage room. Batman peaked around the corner to see stacks of dusty books everywhere, stacks in piles on the floor and overflowing on bookshelves lining the walls. Tucked in a corner a solitary man sat with his back to Batman reading by candlelight. The man was dressed humbly, trousers held up with suspenders over a collared shirt. Even in the dim light, Batman could see a streak of wild colored hair against more natural black tones. It had to be Harvey Dent. Batman entered the room and readied himself for battle.

“Harvey Dent,” he said, still concealed by the shadows. Dent’s head raised from its book and turned slightly, the candlelight highlighting his partially visible profile. Dent’s eyes scanned the darkness.

“Batman,” Harvey Dent growled. “I knew this day would come eventually…”

Harvey Dent rose from his chair and turned to face Batman, who recoiled slightly. The center of his face was fair white skin, cobbled with coffee colored skin near his eyes and jaw. A streak of white hair ran down the center of his head, corralled by short black hair. His ears and neck were coffee brown, as were much of his hands, dashed with spots of white skin. Batman, well familiar with diseases and medical issues enough to be a doctor, immediately recognized it as vitiligo. Informed by the gossip columns, Batman was caught off guard when he saw the truth. Dent picked up on it.

“Not what you expected, Batman?” Dent probed, “Thought you’d find a monster, scarred and disformed?”

“You’re not…what I anticipated,” Batman admitted carefully. 

“You of all people should know the power of rumors, Batman. I’m not flattered by mine, nor am I quick to dispel them,” Dent mused. “If it makes you feel better, you’re not what I expected either. I was almost certain you’d be a white man.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Batman said coldly.

“I’m not disappointed. If anything it’s a pleasant surprise. The audacity to pursue vigilante justice is expected from a white man. A brother on the other hand…”

“Where’s the Joker?” Batman pressed, no longer interested in small talk.

“I’m not inclined or obligated to tell you anything, sir,” Dent challenged. In an instant, Batman rushed to Dent and gripped him back the collar of his shirt.

“I’ll change your mind,” Batman growled. Dent eyes narrowed as they pierced Batman’s, then glanced over Batman’s right shoulder towards the door. In the periphery, Batman could make out the man he’d incapacitated in the hallway armed and aiming at Batman with at least 5 more men.

“Say the word, boss,” the guard shouted from behind his rifle. Not liking his position, Batman spun around and behind Dent, positioning Dent as a shield.

“Tell them to stand down,” Batman hissed in Dent’s ear.

“Or what?” Dent shot back. “You have no leverage.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Batman snarled as he pressed the point of a shuriken into Dent’s side.

“You’re bluffing. I’m a lawyer, Batman. I’m trained to see lies and liars who tell them. The only way you’re leaving this building alive is if I allow it.”

“How do we make that happen?” Batman asked as he scanned the room for possible points of escape. There were none. He was trapped.

“I’ll tell you where Joker is on one condition: you leave and never interfere with my operations again,” Dent replied calmly over his shoulder.

“What’s the catch?” 

“No catch. I don’t owe you anything, nor do I owe anything to the Joker. We’ve done our business. My loyalty is to my men, and I wish you to leave us alone.”

“You’re bluffing now, Dent!”

“I don’t bluff, Batman. I don’t believe in lies or double standards. I’m a man of my word and I expect you to be as well. If you refuse to agree to my terms, I’ll happily have my men kill us both to protect our operation.”

“You wouldn’t,” Batman said, his knuckles cinched tighter on Dent’s waistband.

“I would, and they know I’d do the same if our positions were reversed.”

“Prove it then,” Batman taunted.

“Men, are you ready to kill me to kill Batman as well?” Dent shouted. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Absolutely!”

“Ready, boss!”

“We’re all that we have!” Dent shouted.

“We’re all that we need!” the men shouted back. The hammers of every rifle got pulled back before Dent raised his arm to signal. Dent craned his neck, waiting for Batman’s response. The tight grip on Dent’s shirt and waistband released. Dent walked towards his men, fixing his rumpled collar.

“I don’t know why you choose to work alone, Batman. You’ll never change the world that way,” Dent said, backed by at least a dozen men. “If you were to join—“

“I’ll never join you,” Batman interrupted. Dent’s jaw tightened.

“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” he coldly replied. “I was going to suggest you join the Joker. I’d consider an alliance between yourself and us, but you don’t meet our requirements.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

“You’re not mixed,” Dent said plainly.

Batman’s attention was called to the skin color of Dent’s men. He now noticed all of them were lighter skinned black men. 

“Do you even look at people’s faces before you pummel them? You wouldn’t understand,” Dent continued, “what it’s like to be rejected from everybody except those like you, even as a black man. You see, we’re too black to be white and too white to be black. Every single one of my men is an orphan, a painful reminder of rape or forbidden lust. We have no home except for the one we create ourselves. Do you know what that’s like, Batman? An orphan of tragedy unlike anybody else?”

“You don’t know me,” Batman said through gritted teeth.

“And you don’t know me", Dent echoed in response. 

The two men stared at each other, measuring up each other in seething silence, a stymie of pride and power. Batman remained stoic, while Dent finally smiled a little as he smoothed his wrinkled collar.

“I got Joker and his men onto a shipment train, the overnight 11:35 Gotham to Gettysburg. We boxed them up in crates, and had them loaded on the train as cargo,” Dent said, breaking the silence. “It left forty five minutes ago.”

Batman judiciously took a step towards the exit filled by Dent’s men. Dent took a step back, his men following to create an opening.

“I’m good to my word. You’re free to go, Batman,” Dent said. Batman crossed Dent and started down the hallway. 

“Batman!” Dent shouted. Through the shoulders and barrels of rifles, Batman could see a sliver of Dent’s face.

“Don’t interfere with me or my men again. I give second chances. I don’t give thirds.”

Batman gave no response. His mind no longer considered the sanctity of the pact he’d just made in exchange for his life; Batman was too occupied calculating and envision the Joker’s plot. He silently turned and left the bunker without making a sound. When he was above ground once more, he flew towards downtown Gotham. He needed to find Lucius Fox. He needed to catch up to the 11:35 Gotham to Gettysburg!


	12. The Writing on the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman finally confronts Joker on the hijacked 11:35 Gotham to Gettysburg train!

The 11:35 Gotham to Gettysburg had been traveling for 30 minutes when one of the crates in the boxcar creaked open. The Joker’s dark eyes scanned the boxcar for motion.   
When he was confident no guard were around, he let out a series of syncopated raps on the crate that enclosed him. Slowly other crates began to break open as well. Clyde helped move some of the crates that barred others from exiting their boxes. Joker peered over the crates that housed their proper belonging. Rifles, munition, mortar shells, and bayonets by the hundreds. It was originally met to be enough to secure the Union Army victory in the battle that had erupted in Gettysburg the day before. However, Joker had other plans for it, and he was swooning over his new toys when a Union soldier opened the door at the end of boxcar.

“Hey!” the guard exclaimed.

“Hey!” Joker replied cheerfully before shooting the man in the face.  
________________________________________  
“Lucius! Lucius, wake up!”

Lucius struck a match to light the candle on his bed side dresser. Bruce was shouting Lucius’ name before he barreled into the old man’s room.

“Lucius! What’s the fastest train we have?” Bruce spat as he pulled back the cowl from his face. Lucius could see the frustration and panic in Bruce’s eyes.

“Uh, we’re developing several prototypes that, uh, are going to break speed records…” Lucius replied curiously. “What do you need it for?”

“The Joker hijacked a train headed to Gettysburg and I need to catch it!”

Lucius’ eyes grew wide in fear.

“The 11:35 to Gettysburg?” Lucius asked nervously. Bruce nodded. 

“Shit,” Lucius cursed. 

“What’s on that train?”

“Wayne Industries ammunition, medical supplies, and other weapons for war for the Union troops.”

“My God…” Bruce muttered in distress.

“Let’s head down to the Wayne Locomotive Depot!” Lucius shouted as he flung back the covers from his bed.

After a quick carriage ride to the facility, Lucius hustled past several train chassis and steam engine experiments in the Wayne Locomotive Depot.

“With the Transcontinental Railroad and the expansion of locomotives in the West, the Lincoln Administration commissioned Wayne Industries into engineering a defensive locomotive to prevent train robberies,” Lucius explained as he lit a few kerosene lamps, illuminating a giant curtained mass on the floor. “We call it the Interceptor, and it’s meant to debilitate run away trains with precious cargo.” 

Lucius and Bruce pulled away the canvas to reveal a slick tank of a train engine. Unlike traditional train engines, it was uncharacteristically low to the ground, and very angular in its design. On the right side of the front of the train were cogs of giant gears poking out from black casing. This forced the engineer compartment to the left which housed a state-of-the-art Gatling gun. The smoke-stack chimney split into two metal cylinders that ran down both sides of the engine, fed by smaller tubes that sprouted from the engine. The base of the engine fanned out in sloped wings on each side, slits in the casing revealing various sets of overlapping wheels. It was unlike anything Bruce had ever seen before.

“How soon can you have it ready?” Bruce asked impatiently.

“It’s ready now,” Lucius replied. “It was scheduled to have its first government inspection in two days.”

Bruce climbed aboard and stared at the wall of levers inside the engine room. The control panel was overwhelming. Lucius entered the booth behind Bruce.

“I hope you’re a quick reader,” he said, handing Bruce the thick technical manual.

“I’ll have to be,” Bruce said as he pulled his cowl over his face. “Thank you.”

Lucius nodded and softly replied, “Come back alive, son.”  
_______________________________________

The Interceptor raced to the Northwest towards Gettysburg. Its low profile made it less top heavy and it cut through the air with ease. Not only did it have deeper ruts in the rail wheels, but a second set of wheels set at a 45-degree angle on each, hugging the rails from the outside. This allowed the Interceptor to take corners and turns at nearly unthinkable speeds without tipping over. Batman would to have loved to enjoy the marvel of engineering more purely, but his attention was split between the thick mechanic’s manual and peering the horizon for any sight of the 11:35 to Gettysburg.

The Interceptor’s design pushed the smoke from its own combustion into the cylindrical chambers on each side of the engine, emitting the fumes as needed near the rear of the engine’s body. This allowed Batman’s nose to notice the faintest hints of smoke from up ahead. He put the manual down and scanned the horizon, hoping for any sign he’d closed the gap between himself and Joker. The sun hadn’t yet risen, but its early morning glow teased the darkness to the east. A small lingering of smoke clouds hung in the air in the distance. They slowly condensed into a single line. A flit of motion on the horizon caught Batman’s eye. It was the 11:35 Gotham to Gettysburg! Oddly, it appeared to be averting course, peeling off to the south east. They were changing direction!

Batman picked up the manual and flipped furiously to the chapter on additional thrust. He began swatting at levers, and turned a wheel that released kerosene in the side chambers. The smoke from the steam engine was collected through a series of metal meshes and cooling spirals, to be deposited into the side chamber. Batman pulled the ignition level, which lit the kerosene and soot mixture on each side of the Interceptor. The powerful train jolted forward with a shot of speed as the rocket chambers on each side of the train violently forced it forward. As the boost burned for its few precious seconds, Batman allowed himself a fraction of a smile.

The distance between the two trains getting smaller, Batman was able to see the departure point from the current course. It was a hand operated crank that split the tracks. The operator heard the boom from the Interceptor’s thrusters and began to rapidly crank the tracks back to their original position. Batman sprung over to the Gatlin gun, his rapid cranking matching the track operator’s. A line of bullets sprayed earth into the air, homing in on the track operator. The stream of bullets found the crank level, showering sparks and blood as the operator clutched his stump of a hand. The wails of pain were drowned out as the Interceptor roared passed the incapacitated henchman.  
The Interceptor was still a few hundred yards behind the 11:35 Gotham to Gettysburg as both trains headed to the southeast. Ahead the tracks slowly gravitated back towards the East. 

Are we going back to Gotham? Batman thought. 

His racing mind halted at the sight of man standing on the rear deck of the train ahead. A mop of unmistakable green hair kissed by the early morning light flailed wildly in the wind. Joker stared at his pursuer for a few moments before turning back into the cargo trains cover.

On the 11:35 Gotham to Gettysburg, Joker’s patience was starting to grow thin with Batman’s insistent chase. His wiry body, normally erratically fluid, had grown stiff.

“We have two minutes to move as much ammunition from this car to the next!” Joker barked. His goons scrambled to the nearest crate. When about half of the crates had been emptied to the adjacent car, Joker hurried the men off the rear railcar. 

“You’re with me,” Joker instructed Clyde. With Clyde holding his feet, Joker leaned over the side of the front of the rear railcar, and furiously worked on the nut keeping the brake lever in place. Once it was removed, Joker jammed the brake to engage. As the brake pads squealed, Joker kicked off the lever to the ground below and jumped to the next train. While Clyde leaned over the back of the next car clutching the clown’s purple coat, Joker unlocked the coupler, releasing the rear rail car.

“Bon voyage!” Joker giggled as he kicked his dangling legs. 

The detached car quickly drifted behind. The Interceptor raced towards the rogue rail car, and Batman swatted at a few levers, readying his engine for its intended purpose. On the right side of the train, the giant cogs started to turn. A large lifting fork flipped over from the casing and lowered a few inches above the speeding rails below. Batman braked slightly as the Interceptor came into contact with the runaway rail car, lurching forward upon impact. With the brakes from the rail car wailing under duress from the Interceptor’s forceful push, Batman used his powerful upper body to rotate the large four-foot crank wheel inside the train’s engine room. Each turn of the crank wheel brought a rhythmic clanking of gears and churning of cogs. The lift fork slowly raised the right side of the rail car, and shortly its right-side wheels were off the tracks! Sparks shot from the left side of the railcar as its wheel gnashed against the tracks, and the Interceptor moaned from the enormous load it was attempting to move. Sweat dripped from Batman’s face as his monstrous body rotated the wheel again and again, a job that was designed to be done by two men. The cacophony of sound became deafening: the railcar’s brakes screamed from the intense friction, the Interceptor’s mechanical guts groaned, and Batman furiously panted and yelled to turn the wheel its final time. 

Then silence. 

The rail car, overcome by gravity, toppled to its left. It slammed onto its side, dirt and splinters of lumber burst into the air. Joker’s eyes couldn’t open any wider in disbelief as he watched the engineering marvel derail the car. Batman’s recovered his breath as he once again engaged the soot rocket thrusters, propelling the Inceptor towards Joker’s train. The lift, like a drawn sword, returned to its lowered position, ready for its next victim.

On the 11:35, a handful of goons collected on the rear deck and unleashed rifle rounds upon the Interceptor. The lead bullets bounced off the ironclad armor of the Interceptor, which had narrowed the distance between the two trains to a dozen meters. While the goons reloaded their muskets, Batman once again jumped to the Gatlin gun and sprayed bullets against the rear deck of the 11:35. Goons jumped off the moving train to safety, others bled. Once convinced he had bought some time, Batman sped up and ensured the lift had slipped underneath the chassis of the railcar ahead. He manned the giant wheel and started to turn; his ears fixed on the mechanical song of gears but his eyes on the train ahead. A few heaves in, Batman saw the giant man Clyde pouncing onto the Interceptor, landing with a heavy THUD!

“Great…” Batman groaned. 

Batman thought he had enough time to get in one full rotation before Clyde was in the engine room, but he was wrong. Clyde whipped inside the Interceptor and slammed his hulking frame into Batman against the iron walls. Inside the cramped room, Batman did his best to duck and dodge away from Clyde’s brute strength, but the large man used his imposing stature to force the fight into a corner. After blocking a right overhand from Clyde, Batman landed 3 strikes to Clyde’s midsection. Barely phased, Clyde’s left hand got a handful of Batman’s cape, and slung Batman’s head against the wall. Batman’s skull bounced off the iron walls, and Clyde swung wildly with his right while pinning Batman back with his left. Consciousness blinked in and out for Batman. Clyde flung Batman to the opposite side of the engine room like a ragdoll. Batman’s head landed a few inches from the furnace door, which housed the roaring fire that powered the steam engine. Clyde swatted open the furnace gate.

“In ya go!” Clyde growled. Clyde drove Batman’s head into the furnace, but Batman caught each side of the gate frame with his hands. Batman’s nostrils filled with the putrid stench of his beard stubble melting away. Batman’s primal instincts kicked in as he began to writhe in panic from the blistering heat. Fighting against the fear based need to survive, Batman let go of the grate with his right hand and grabbed a handful of white hot coals. He flung them backwards, and Clyde howled in pain as the embers hissed against his tender eyes and face. Batman drove his heel into Clyde’s midsection, sending the big man stumbling backwards. His cowl still smoking, Batman landed a series of punches against the now blinded Clyde. A brutal uppercut caught Clyde’s chin, causing his head to slam into the low hanging ceiling of the engine room. With Clyde stunned, Batman thrusted his shoulder into Clyde’s chest and sent him careening out of the open engine room, tumbling onto the earth rushing beneath the Interceptor.

Free from interference, Batman jumped back to the giant wheel and strained to turn it again and again. The railcar ahead of him seemed to be free of goons as it quickly approached the tipping point. With the railcar wheels screaming and dousing the tracks with sparks, the second railcar finally succumbed to gravity, slamming onto its side. As the railcar fell from the tracks, it revealed a waiting Joker armed with a cannon. The barrel, sticking out of the rear doorway of the railcar, pointed directly at the engine room of the Interceptor. Joker lit the fuse and then blew a kiss to Batman. 

BOOM! cracked the cannon. Batman instinctively ducked, but the giant shell didn’t penetrate the Interceptor’s heavy armor. It created a bulge inside the engine room of about 6 inches, but, remarkably, the armor held! Joker hurried to reload the cannon. Not wanting to give him the chance, Batman activated the thrusters again. The Interceptor slammed into the railcar ahead, sending Joker stumbling back. Batman jumped to the wheel and started to frantically crank it. Joker remounted the cannon. It was a race between the forklift and the cannon as the two trains flew down the tracks.

The cannon boomed again! The ball lodged itself into the viewing slot of the Interceptor, but, again, the armor held. Meanwhile Batman labored on the lift wheel, and the railcar ahead slowly began to lift off the ground. As his cannon slid from the tilt, Joker let off another shot. BOOM! The giant lead ball sunk into the iron armor of the Interceptor, but still failed to stop the pursuing train. Joker frowned. His eyes jumped around the Interceptor, looking for a weak point. After a moment, a giant grin ballooned on his face, and he giggled as he loaded another shot. 

At this point, the railcar of the 11:35 was nearly a 30-degree tilt. Working against the tilt of the train, Joker aimed the cannon at the right side of the Interceptor. After another BOOM!, the Interceptor jostled upon impact from the shot, but less so. 

What was Joker trying to hit? Batman wondered. He abandoned the wheel for a moment, and poked his head outside to find the Joker’s target. The cannonball had slammed into the port side of the engine, a few inches above the combustion chambers that held the collected fumes of the engine chimney. Batman’s eyes grew wide in panic and he turned just in time to see Joker light another fuse. 

In a flash Batman whipped himself onto the roof of the Interceptor’s engine cabin and jumped towards the 11:35. The cannon boomed again and this time it hit its mark! The combustion chambers exploded upon impact causing the Interceptor to careen off the tracks. The fork underneath the 11:35 caught just enough of the inertia to tip the railcar as well. Joker cackled like a madman as he ran off the tilting rail car, jumping to the next railcar just in the nick of time! As he laughed to the sky in celebration, the clown saw the silhouette of Batman’s cape shooting overhead against the orange glow of dawn. 

The explosion from the Interceptor had shot Batman forward. He’d quickly tossed his collapsible hook at the 11:35. With his hook secured, Batman’s body acted like a pendulum against the taut cable. Batman slammed shoulder first onto the roof of the front rail car. Batman grimaced as he got to his feet from the impact. He was also amazed he had survived and landed on the train in one piece. 

Batman’s celebration was cut short. Joker climbed onto the roof of the rear train. The two men stood off with an empty railcar in between. 

“If your persistence wasn’t so annoying, it’d be hilarious,” Joker shouted with a sour smirk.

“Stop this train, Joker, or I will,” Batman yelled in return, closing the gap between them. “You’ve lost.”

“Said a black bat to a black clown. Pot and kettle, darling.”

“Whatever you had planned for these weapons, it won’t work.”

“Won’t it? You act like you know what you’re talking about,” Joker teased. “You seem to think it’s just little ol’ me carrying out nasty plans. This country is at war, you know. Thousands are dying right now behind us,” he said pointing to the North, “and yet you think I’m worth all this attention.”

“You’re different. You’re dangerous,” Batman pressed as he stepped onto the middle railcar.

“Oh, Batman. You’re going to make me blush,” Joker cooed. “Alas, I’m not the only star of this show. I think my partners in crime deserve a little recognition, don’t you think?”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Joker said with a shrug. “I haven’t met them yet. I just see the writing on the wall.”

“What have you done?”

“Well, nothing yet, but I aspire for greatness: I’m going to be the man who killed Abraham Lincoln, emancipator of the slaves!”

Batman stopped. 

“You can’t. You won’t,” Batman growled.

“I can,” Joker retorted snidely, “and if I don’t, somebody else will.”

“He’s trying to save us!”

“From what? From themselves! And what happens now? You think every master’s heart is going to turn to warm pudding? Even you are smarter than that. Or maybe you’re not…” Joker considered. “You do uphold their laws. Protect their things. Promote their values. Your sense of irony quite literally kills me, Batman.”

“What can we do then?” Batman asked, attempting to mask the desperation of his plea.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Joker giggled. The wind pickup his hair, and its green locks danced freely in the wind. He looked weightless. “Even shit burns,” he sang.  
Batman watched as the clown danced whimsically, entranced in his own fantasy. Batman’s stomach had grown slightly sour, knotted in a mix of rage and despair.

“There has to be a better way,” Bruce exclaimed.

“Maybe for you, but not for me,” Joker hummed with pursed lips. 

Batman’s mind spun into a frenzy of confusion, and he shook his head in a distant disbelief. The Joker’s words settled into a stinging sorrow. Then the all too familiar rage seeped its way into the darkest corners of Bruce’s soul. Batman clinched his fists and jaws with crushing force. In a furious flash, Batman raced towards Joker at full speed.

“There he is!” Joker burst with delight. “Come to me, my darling angel!”

Joker let off six shots from his pistol as Batman roared towards him. Batman’s cape flitted in the wind as he spun and slid to dodge the incoming fire, creating twisted shapes of fabric that took most of the bullets. With all the shots having been spent, Batman leapt into the air, and caught Joker’s hand with a flying roundhouse kick, sending the gun flying out of Joker’s grip. Landing planted on his knee, Batman’s slammed his heel into Joker’s midsection, sending the clown tumbling backwards. As he regained his breath, Joker’s gasps for air turned into a sick giggle, and he slide down the rear ladder to the deck of the railcar below. 

Batman raced to the rear of the railcar. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Joker below, Batman was met with a flash of steel in the morning sun’s light. He was able to bring his forearm up to his face in the nick of time. The knife Joker had flung buried itself into Batman’s forearm with a moist “SSSHHHHCCTT”. Batman winced as he pulled the knife out. With his head poking out from the railcar’s door, Joker’s eyes were bright and stary, like a child on Christmas morning. Batman returned the favor and sent the knife back down to Joker, which missed, and planted itself into the wooden planks of the railcar deck.

“You animal!” Joker goaded with sexual glee. The swampy smells of the nearby Monocacy River, nature’s exchange of old death and new life, coursed through Joker’s nostrils, filling him with vitality. It was his birthplace, after all. My God, I feel good, he thought.

Batman slammed onto the rear deck in time to see Joker sprinting into the next railcar. A bolas ball cut through the air and wrapped itself tightly around Joker’s feet, sending him to the railcar floor.

“No! NO! NOOOO!” Joker yelled in a fit, as his mind snapped from bliss and scrambled for an answer. As Batman stalked closer, Joker flailed on the floor, digging his fingernails into a nearby crate. His bloody fingers slipped into the cracks of the crate, and Joker pried open the lid as the nails moaned in duress. Batman stood over the defeated Joker.

“Give up. It’s over,” Batman hissed. Joker looked over his shoulder. His eyes were full of fire and malice. Then they relaxed, and little crow’s feet grew around their corners. Sweat and smudges had broken through Joker’s thick caked on white face, islands of black skin meeting the morning light. The corners of his mouth, fragile and sensitive, had torn once again and blood dripped down his chin. 

“On the contrary, my dear boy,” the clown replied, “We’re just getting started.” Joker rolled onto his back to reveal a lit mortar shell in his right hand. He lifted it ceremoniously. “A toast! To us and to new beginnings!”

Joker flung the mortar behind him into the crates full of munitions. Batman’s eyes tracked the live shell and failed to see Joker slip a knife in between his legs, cutting himself free. Unencumbered, Joker planted his toe squarely into Batman’s groin, doubling over the otherwise impervious man. Joker flew past Batman and quickly came to the rear deck of the railcar. The first crack of explosions ripped through the air as the 11:35 Gotham to Gettysburg entered the trestle bridge over the Monocacy River. 

Joker laughed with glee as he dove from the deck of the train. “WHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” he screamed in ecstasy before slamming into the murky waters below. 

Still bent over, Batman knew that the train was doomed to a fiery demise. The initial mortar explosion had already spread to several other crates. He had seconds. Maybe.  
He bolted for rear deck as more crates started to blow. Batman whipped out his grappling hook from his belt and flung it towards the trellis scaffolding above. The rail car erupted into a giant explosion as Batman swung to the tracks of the bridge. The trestle supports shook and started to give way as the second railcar’s munitions burst into oblivion. The bridge beams cracked and whined as they could no long stand the chaos. The center of the bridge began to buckle and collapse. Batman sprinted towards the north side banks of the Monocacy, leapt off the now diagonal tracks, and floated safely to solid ground. Batman turned to face the damage, his face aglow from the burning munitions.

The 11:35 sat nestled in between the collapsed bridge. The parts of railcars still above the water burned, while the river hissed and spat as it met the hot metal from the engine. The wooden bridge was being consumed by the flames and would be gone in a matter of hours. 

Batman scanned the riverbank for any sign of Joker. He knew he had to try. He also knew he would fail. Joker was gone.

__________________________________

It took Bruce five days to walk back to Gotham. As a lone black man on the road, he had to be extremely cautious. As he made his way East, he could not help but dissect and analyze Joker’s every word: 

“The writing is on the wall.” 

“Partners in crime.”

“Their values.” 

Bruce reached Wayne Manor before he reached any confidence that the Joker was entirely wrong.

“Master Bruce! Thank God you’re alive!” Alfred exclaimed as Bruce lumbered into the cave below Wayne Manor. Alfred tried to console Bruce as best he could, but Bruce seemed distracted and distant. Eventually Alfred drew Bruce a warm bath. At last, Bruce closed his eyes and he looked like he was at a tenuous peace. Alfred turned to leave.

“Alfred, can you bring me today’s newspaper?”

“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“Not right now. However, please make sure to set a copy of the Gotham Tribune down in the cave as soon as it comes. I’ll need it first thing every morning from now on.”

“Very good, sir.” Alfred decided to pry. “Will you be looking for something in particular?”

The corners of Bruce’s mouth fell into the smallest of frowns, almost undetectable.

“Yes, Alfred.”

Alfred took the hint and left. He knew the burden Bruce carried was heavy. Alfred did as he was instructed and left a copy of the Gotham Tribune in the cave as soon as it was delivered. It was a task he kept up for nearly two years. Bruce checked it as soon as he could after completing his night patrols.  
One morning Bruce noticed the copy of the Tribune as absent. Displeased, he finished disrobing as Batman and climbed the staircase to Wayne Manor above. He found Alfred sitting in one of the armchairs, bent over the copy of the Tribune.

“I was wondering where the Tribune was,” Bruce prodded. Alfred’s eyes came back into focus, his fixation on the words of the paper had broken.

“Excuse me, Master Bruce,” Alfred stammered. “I didn’t hear you come in. My apologies.”

The Gotham Tribune relaxed into Alfred’s lap. Bruce’s heart stopped momentarily as he saw the paper’s headline in bold font: “Terror! Despair! President Lincoln Assassinated!”.

The End.


End file.
